Dipankar was walking slowly through the milieu of people bustling around him on the narrow footpath. Such frenzied activity was only expected, he thought. New Year’s Eve was a special day for most people in the world. If nothing else, it was a day when they made an attempt to break the monotony that had seeped into their lives and had started outweighing emotions of joy and excitement. It was probably for the same reason that they made resolutions. At least the prospect of breaking them after continuing to grapple with them gave people something to look forward to for that short period of time.
He had left his office a little earlier than usual today. Almost as a routine, he was the last person to leave. But his normally stone-faced and demanding boss had come up to him this evening and said in a mellow voice, “D.S.” Dipankar was affectionately called D.S. at office. “I think you should take a little rest today.” Maybe, his boss had resolved to be more sympathetic towards his subordinates this year. But over time, Dipankar had become increasingly detached to let this small change of heart lend him any sort of delight.
The phone buzzed. Dipankar read out his daughter’s SMS, “Don’t be late. You do know what day it is today.” How could he forget? It was New Year’s eve after all. His daughter would be waiting for him anxiously, just like his young son. Dipankar thought of what he would like them to become when they grew up. Jane could be a good scientist, he thought. And what about Angel? Engineer? Or, better still, doctor? Artist, though, would be more like Angel. After considering a couple of other options, Dipankar decided that he was fine with anything as long as Angel didn’t become like him – stoic, phlegmatic, detached.
Dipankar stopped at a flower shop and picked up some roses. His wife would be happy to see them. You may become indifferent, but there is still the odd thing you have to indulge yourself in, if only to please the ones you love. And Dipankar did love his wife for certain, however removed from life he might have become. They had met in an old church in Panaji. She had come with her friends. And he had come with his. Everyone had their heads bowed in deep conversation with Jesus, except the two of them. They were simply staring at the altar, finding a good enough reason to pray. However, their eyes soon met, and they understood each other’s predicament. Smiles were exchanged, followed by secretive glances. Soon enough, they started meeting at the church every weekend, and it became customary for Dipankar to be present with a neat little bouquet of fresh roses for her every time they met.
Dipankar reached the garden and walked down along the gravel path. His kids were already waiting for him. “Dad, you are here”, Jane said and gave him a hug. Angel was sitting on the gravel floor, his face as eloquent as ever, a picture of serenity in pain. Dipankar bent down close to him, looked into his eyes, and found a tear trickling down. He looked at the tombstone in front of him that had the inscription:
He had left his office a little earlier than usual today. Almost as a routine, he was the last person to leave. But his normally stone-faced and demanding boss had come up to him this evening and said in a mellow voice, “D.S.” Dipankar was affectionately called D.S. at office. “I think you should take a little rest today.” Maybe, his boss had resolved to be more sympathetic towards his subordinates this year. But over time, Dipankar had become increasingly detached to let this small change of heart lend him any sort of delight.
The phone buzzed. Dipankar read out his daughter’s SMS, “Don’t be late. You do know what day it is today.” How could he forget? It was New Year’s eve after all. His daughter would be waiting for him anxiously, just like his young son. Dipankar thought of what he would like them to become when they grew up. Jane could be a good scientist, he thought. And what about Angel? Engineer? Or, better still, doctor? Artist, though, would be more like Angel. After considering a couple of other options, Dipankar decided that he was fine with anything as long as Angel didn’t become like him – stoic, phlegmatic, detached.
Dipankar stopped at a flower shop and picked up some roses. His wife would be happy to see them. You may become indifferent, but there is still the odd thing you have to indulge yourself in, if only to please the ones you love. And Dipankar did love his wife for certain, however removed from life he might have become. They had met in an old church in Panaji. She had come with her friends. And he had come with his. Everyone had their heads bowed in deep conversation with Jesus, except the two of them. They were simply staring at the altar, finding a good enough reason to pray. However, their eyes soon met, and they understood each other’s predicament. Smiles were exchanged, followed by secretive glances. Soon enough, they started meeting at the church every weekend, and it became customary for Dipankar to be present with a neat little bouquet of fresh roses for her every time they met.
Dipankar reached the garden and walked down along the gravel path. His kids were already waiting for him. “Dad, you are here”, Jane said and gave him a hug. Angel was sitting on the gravel floor, his face as eloquent as ever, a picture of serenity in pain. Dipankar bent down close to him, looked into his eyes, and found a tear trickling down. He looked at the tombstone in front of him that had the inscription:
Joan D’Souza
24 Aug, 1970 - 31 Dec, 2004
24 Aug, 1970 - 31 Dec, 2004
Dipankar took out his bouquet of roses, and placed it in his son’s hands, “Happy Birthday, dear Angel.” Angel leapt into his father’s arms and hugged him, as his tears streamed down.
