What Jawala Singh had said in his simple and straight forward way that day, has come to my mind again and again -- “The attitude of the white people has been different from the very beginning. Leave them aside. We do not behave like them. If our son or daughter does not get a job we keep him or her with us. Not to speak of our own offspring, we feel anxious about their children also. But these children assume that we are completely ignorant and they are the sole custodians of all wisdom. In our youth, we used to show great regard and respect to our elders. Now, however, no heed is paid to old values. The very time has changed. Nobody is prepared to accede to what the aged people say. They are completely devoid of tranquility, sensibility and forbearance, but they believe as if every domestic decision only they could take. The elderly people are considered superfluous these days as if they were not needed at all at this age,” saying this he took the support of his staff and stood up from the bench. He moved towards the gate of the park watching his surroundings in such a way as if he cared two hoots for the bitterness of life.

Now the individual experience of people like Jawala Singh seems to be the common experience of the world.

I take the focus of my attention away from him and begin to think about myself. Turning the pages of the book of life I am a face-to-face with so many bitter realities of life. I do not know whether Parkasho has ever considered me a life-partner to share joys and sorrows or not. Her life has mostly been full of bitterness.

All my life I have been at loggerheads with her. She has done womanly tasks at home and male jobs in the fields. Yet nobody has never appreciated her at home. In the joint family at home everyone has maltreated her. Inspite of the availability of money she has always remained prey to economic hardships. Under instigation I, too, behaved dishonourably. I have always taken her for a maid servant instead of life-partner -- a means of domestic chores and physical requirement. I have never tried to understand the human being inside her.

The children grew up and turned out to be money-earning and noble. When her circumstances changed, the grievances and complaints against life started to disappear. Whenever I behaved rudely with her, my grown-up children made me realise my mistake and I would be softened.

While living in the Punjab she had undergone great suffering -- hardships born of domestic troubles. Heartless and apathetic words kept piercing her heart. But being patient she spent her time. Even after her coming to England I have been ill-treating her but she tolerated everything without heaving a sigh, as if she had got used to all this. Now when the grown-up boys begin to confront me, I am obliged to change my attitude. Whenever there was some trouble in the house, the boys stood by her and I could do nothing but accept a defeat.

For myself, I too had started thinking that I should change now. In order to be respected at home, I shall have to show respect to the housewife. She had no grievance either against life or against me. Many a time when I spoke at high pitch, she would say, “It is his temper that is to blame, otherwise his heart overflows with affection.”

Whenever she recalled the past, she did blame me. She would say, “One can feel confident only by virtue of one’s support. Why blame others, when my own husband is not favourable? Well, I have passed my time. I have not done any bad turn to anybody. Time will come when somebody will repent of his actions.”

But now for the last ten or fifteen years, we have had a very good equation. Immediately after returning from work I had started looking for her. I do not know that perhaps during the last lap of life the need for a life-partner becomes all the more pressing and important. After getting pension, I used to come and sit in the lounge instead of sitting at dining table. Our daughter-in-law served food to the rest of the family and Parkasho brought food for me on the coffee table itself. Many a time she, herself also ate in my company. Whenever she ate with the children, ahead of me, she brought hot chapattis for me as I was eating. While she was alive I had not much cared for her but God knows why I recall her so frequently after her death.

It is the end of the month of June. The day had risen, but it is as good as not-risen. The light had spread but the chirping of sparrows today is not as it used to be. The gusts of cool and pleasant breeze are coming in through the window. I want to still keep lying in my bed. But all of a sudden thundering of clouds, like bursting of bombs, has obliged me to peep out of the curtains. I look out through the window. Early in the morning the clouds have spread. The weather like this seems to be very fascinating. In winter such a weather seems contemptible, but in summer it seems delectable, like the rains in our own country. The charm of such a weather injects even in the cattle, the urge to leap and bound. The flower plants and fruit trees waving in the back garden look more prettier in the rain. This charm of nature, while it fascinates the mind, many a time it fills with depression. The weather has a very deep relationship with the mind. A feeling of loneliness has started overwhelming the mind with a faint hang of pain of loneliness. And then under the influence of advancing age, a needless anxiety begins to knock at the door of the mind. I suffer from a misbelief as if I had become insecure. There is an unknown fear, more about the future than about the present. The hue of loneliness and depression grows deeper. Outside, the weather is still very charming but inside, the weather has become full of laments.

I do not know why it happens to me. Even though everything is available, I suffer from a feeling of hollowness. Though I always try to keep myself in high spirits, yet I am a human being after all -- a creature made of flesh and blood. If the mind sometimes wavers, it is but natural. This is not at all the reason why I am afraid of journeying towards old age. This part of life has its own beauty and charm. Still it seems that such thoughts are only devices to keep the wavering mind stop. Now I have started feeling more intensely the fear of being lonesome and unwanted.

It happened just yesterday. We were sitting in the sun in the park and poking fun at one another. The group of age-mates got up from the park and went to the Gurdwara. They partook of the community lunch, took tea and began indulging in fun and frolic. When, while setting out homewards, Jawala Singh heaved a big sigh. I felt as if he were not happy to go home; he was obliged to go home only under compulsion. They say that this very Jawala Singh cared two hoots for the whole village in his youth. Then I think how it concerns me.

But there must be some reason why I also feel a creeping current of depression somewhere deep down inside me.

While lying in my bed at night, I have frequently thought of Jawala Singh. After the death of Asso he has been completely shattered. The miserable fellow has just given in. I have tried to explain to him that he has money earning sons who are all well of. He can stay with any one of them. His daughters are happily married and free from any worry at home. If only Asso has ceased to be now, the heavens are not going to fall. But he thinks that without her, he has been rendered lonely in this world.

When I was working, I was in good health and the time also passed comfortably. What can an idle man do for the whole day? It does not behove to roam about in parks and bazaars all the time. It seems to be just loafing about. If it continues to rain the entire day can be spent at Gurdwara. This home of the Guru also affords divine protection. Otherwise where could one go? The days are spent in good company and you eat well at no cost. Enjoy yourself and go home to sleep. You do not find the previous camaraderie in the families now. While living together in the same house each member has his own world. Enfolded in the same four walls, the tales of the grandparents have been incomprehensible for the grandchildren.

The portrait of the Parkasho, whom I had never treated as a human being, lying on the metal piece now, sometimes creates an illusion of a goddess.

Since the time I have started feeling pain in the chest I suffer from a misbelief. In my thoughts, I begin to be confronted with wards and beds of the hospitals. I do not know why I am so afraid of dying in these hospitals. I wish that one should die in his own village, where his grave should be built near those of his forefathers.

While having these reflections, I clearly visualise the cremation ground of my village. On one side there is a thick grove of trees and on the other side there is a pond, the cremation ground is situated in between. I imaginatively see the bundles of the burnt bones hanging from the acacia tree in the cremation ground. Here are burnt bones of the people of the village, hung with care and waiting to be sunk at Hardwar in the first available leisure. But the bones from some bundles have fallen on the ground and are lying neglect. Also, it makes no difference whether the bones be neglected in the cremation ground or they are thrown in the polluted water of the Ganges. What difference does it make to a dead man?

Today while taking tea, I told my son what I felt i.e. he should get my seat booked. I want to die in my own bungalow, fondly built in my village. Not only I want to die there, I want to live also in that bungalow before my death. At the Gurdwara I have told my decision to my friends also. While telling this, I felt happy and proud too. I was happy to live in the village and was proud of my uncommon thinking, of getting away from the traditional way.

. . . . . Arriving at the village, I did feel exhorted. The neighbours also started sending cooked vegetarian food. But very soon they seemed to have lost their keenness to serve me.

I got all the rooms of the bungalow repainted. While moving about inside, I feel enraptured. I could feel the fragrance of my hard work in it. This bungalow has come into existence after my twenty years’ hard labour in England.

Today again I was feeling somewhat depressed. I have received a phone call from my younger son. I tell him that I am very happy and that they should not worry on my account. I have been obliged to tell a lie otherwise how could I tell him that I felt like crying and that I was feeling lonely and depressed.

Just to change the state of my mind, I set out for the fields. When I reach the farm house two labourers from Bihar state (Bhaiyas) were sitting at the tube well, smoking beedies. A young man wearing a turban of criss-cross design was seen coming. He does not seem to be a Bhaiya. He may perhaps be a grandson of Kishan Singh, but he passed beside me quietly. Then I think that he too may perhaps be a Bhaiyya. The sons of Kishan Singh were very stout. They had thighs like logs and chests like rocks. The grandson of Kishan Singh could not have crooked legs like those of this person. He has projecting knees like those of a drug addict. Then I think that most of the young men in the villages, these days are like this. Possibly he may be the grandson of Kishan Singh.

Arriving back at home I feel all the more distracted. I am feeling hungry but I don’t feel like kneading the flour. I feel like taking a hot glass of milk. Sometimes I think that I should fetch a loaf of bread from the grocer’s shop. The sun has not set as yet. I will have the occasion of meeting some persons. I will fry two eggs and eat them with bread, then I shall go to bed. In this indecision, I catch sight of a bottle of rum lying on the work top in the kitchen. This gives strength to my mind. I think that in England, I had been cooking my food for such a long time. Why do I dislike it now? I take out the flour, knead it and put it aside under a cover. I take a full peg of rum and feel like laying my cot on the roof top instead of courtyard. I can also take along an empty glass and a jug of water. I do not know whether it is due to rum or what. The cot, while I am taking it upstairs to the roof top, seems to be weightless.

I take two rounds on the roof top and then sit on the cot. I cast a glance on the roof tops of the surrounding houses in the village. It seems as nobody were residing in these houses; or as if they had taken shelter inside the rooms. Why don’t the people now sit on the roof tops in the open air? I question myself. Soon I fed up and feel like going downstairs into the drawing room and sitting before the television for a while. How long shall I keep staring at my surroundings, sitting all alone, here?

At night I have enjoyed a sound sleep. The milk boy calls me from outside. I get up and open the door. The milk boy pours milk from his brass measure into my jug and I put it into the fridge.

I have hardly taken two boiled eggs along with the tea when two rag picking women open the gate and come in. The middle aged woman is carrying an infant on her hip, while the other one is at the prime of her life. She has a swarthy complexion and big black eyes which have a strange attraction in them. I tell them that I am myself staying as a single man without encumbrances. How can I give them the chapattis? I myself need a woman to cook my food. The aged woman says, “Father, give us some money at least. You are the owner of such a beautiful bungalow. May God bless your sons and grandsons in England with a long life. Give us something in charity . . . !”

A cunning smile in their eyes responds to my cunning words.

I try to put them off with five rupees. I feel like telling them to come daily. I wish that I should make them sit for some time on some pretext. I want to serve tea and talk to them. But then thinking of my age I fear that the people might misinterpret it. People will call me a scoundrel and a shameless old man.

After they have left, I think that I should engage some women to mop the floor. Some woman will consent at two to four hundred rupees per month. This house now seems to be yearning for the touch of a woman. That day I had refused to rent out the room to the high school master without any rhyme of reason. It would not have made any difference though; he would not have taken possession of the bungalow. Both the husband and wife could have resided. I would have had somebody to talk too. It would have been better for me than to address the blank walls.

I don’t feel like walking as yet by holding a stick in my hand because I am not yet aged enough to hold it. The sinews of my legs still have vitality and my breathing is normal. Nevertheless, I have started holding a stick for fear of a dog or something. I am not taking the support of the stick by putting it against the ground; rather I go about flourishing it in the air. My pressed beard, tightly tied turban and dress show as if I were an army captain.

When I approach the cremation ground, I feel depressed; I halt there for some time. The place has neither a pond nor a grove of trees. There is only a tall tin roof fixed on a frame of girders. It means that now the dead bodies can be cremated in torrential rains. To me it seems less a cremation ground than a store of cattle bones. I do not feel like dying in neglect at a place like this.

My thoughts have started wandering speedily hither and thither. The memory of the verdurous and flowery cremation ground of the city of London occupies my thoughts. That is a very vast and pleasant place, covered by colourful flowers, bushes and trees. It gives the look of a fascinating picnic spot. It has beautiful halls furnished with chairs and is surrounded on all sides by greenery. The atmosphere is really peaceful.

Getting out of these thoughts I direct my steps towards the village. Suddenly a boy following me or perhaps walking beside me has asked me, “Grandfather, what is the matter? Why did you say -- ‘where should I die’?”

I look at his face in astonishment to know whether I had really uttered these words. Then taking my attention away from his face, I look at the distant horizon inclining on the crops as if I sought a two yard piece of space from the sky itself.