The tune of life (Telugu:Jeevaragam By K. Varalakshmi)

          It was not known why the train had stopped for such a long time. I kept the
novel that I was reading, aside with annoyance and looked out of the window.
The view of the hills from the window at that distance made them look quite
serene. Some passengers with less patience got down and strolled, hither and
thither, with no purpose. Feeling a little bored, I opened my purse and the
letter, which made me take this journey, once again came into focus and into
my hands.

“Dear Shruti,
It was a long time ago that I wrote to you. When I received your condolence
message, I was not doing well. Having suffered a severe heart attack, I was
admitted to the Apollo Hospital. Returning home yesterday, I saw your letter
on my table and felt a relief that a man drifting in the midst of a flowing river
without any support feels when he gets hold of a boat.

          You must be questioning yourself as to why Murty, who has never written
before like this, is writing so now. Just now I am able to grasp the harmful
effects of this middle age, i.e. crossing forty. A number of things have turned
into problems causing me pain. My attempts to share my feelings with others
are thwarted by my ego and status. Some of the painful feelings which I cannot
even share with my wife are crushing my heart. I am writing this letter only to
relieve my mind of the heaviness it is bearing.

          Shruti! Don’t think that I am writing this in an emotional and sorrowful mood.
You are my best friend, right from childhood. You have understood me
properly with all my weaknesses included. You are my only close friend. Even
at the club, those feigning to be my friends give respect only to my police
officer’s uniform…but not to me. They appreciate the stiffness of my khaki
dress and do not notice the agony in my heart. Actually, there is no need for
such an introduction while writing a letter to you. But I wrote all this lest you
may see me as a mad man wanting to cry loudly… at this age.

          Shruti! Exactly a month ago, this day, my mother passed away leaving me
forever. You know how many hard times she endured to bring me up and get
me an education. On the very next day of my birth, she lost her husband in
land dispute and the land also. She struggled with the hardships of the world
all by herself. She wished that I, her only child, should have all comforts in life
in all forms for which she toiled with sweat – it was her blood turned into
water. Well, what have I done, in return, to such a mother? I left her alone in
that village in her old age. I thought that only by marrying the daughter of a
millionaire my wealth will increase along with my status in the society. It never
occurred to me that I became a permanent slave of these rich fellows and that
I have done a great deal of injustice to my own mother. I was simply afraid that
she would be oddness, like a mismatched statue, in our marble palace, but
could not realise that I corrupted her mind… like a drop of poison spoiling a
vessel of milk. Though I visited her only once a year, I sensed her happiness, on
seeing me, reflected in the brightness of her eyes like the glow of crores of
lamps. My chest swelled at this but my ego held me back from expressing my
affection for her. Shruti! We do not realise the value of a person so long as he
or she is within our reach.

          In whose eyes can I now see that immense light of happiness? I am so
unfortunate that I was not even able to pour the sacred Tulsi jal (sacred basil
with water) in her mouth while she was breathing her last… the one who had
fed me her milk from the time I was born. This grief will not leave me
throughout my life. I could not realise my folly until some gentleman wired me
to reach there immediately and I saw my mother’s dead body lying alone in the
courtyard of the old ancestral house of our village. I felt that there could not be
a less caring man than me in the world. These are not drops of my tears which
are falling on this letter and erasing the words, but are the drops of my blood
like a knife cutting my heart into pieces. I want to feel like laying my head on
the lap of my mother and weep till I am relieved of this agony. But where can I
find my mother now?

          Not even four days had passed after my return from that place after
completing the rituals of my mother that I got another shock. While still in the
mourning state, my only daughter Sravanti informed that she will marry a boy
of her choice. This was like a dynamite explosion in my heart. On the same day
I got a heart attack. I fail to comprehend as to why children today behave with such stubbornness even after parents fulfil every need of children like we
brought her up giving her every thing of her choice with utmost love and care?
She wants to marry without my involvement. Is this justified? She doesn’t care
whether it is justified or not. After all, she is my daughter imbibing my
qualities, isn’t she?

          Now, I have no strength to write anything more. So I remain here wishing to
die.

Yours truly,
Satyamurty”

          I finished reading the letter in grip of sadness with tears wetting my eyes.
I had thought Satyamurty to be worldly wise and a down to earth person. I had
not expected such innocence deep within him.

          Satyamurty and I were born and brought up at the same village. We continued
our studies together right from our childhood till our post-graduation. Later, he
went to Madras to join the civil services and I remained at Visakhapatnam to
do my Ph.D. and thus, our ways parted. Rather, it would be more apt to say
that his pragmatic approach to life made us move in different directions.
I had not received such a letter from him all through this long years of our
acquaintance. Probably, friends seem to come much nearer at the time of
distress. I wanted to see him at once and console him. I observed the date of
the letter. It was posted ten days ago. Saluations to the Postal Department!
I did not wait any more.

          My responsibilities at the college as its principal are many. I got the reservation
done for my train journey after handing over charge to the vice-principal for a
week. My brother who works at the Shalimars has been alleging that I didn’t
pay him a visit for a long time. On this pretext I can see my brother, sister-in-
law and their children as well. I did not even send a telegram informing them
of my trip. Of course, Murty was not doing well. Why should I bother him
further, requesting him to receive me at the station?

          Getting down from the train at the destination, I went straight away to my
brother’s place.

* * *

          When the taxi stopped in front of that house in the evening, I couldn’t believe
the scene in front of my eyes. The shamiana (tent) was filled with the sound of
the shehnai (wind musical instrument). The entire house was decked up with
rich decorations. The air was filled with the fragrance of liberal arrangements
of flowers making the whole atmosphere to have a pleasant experience. The
house covered with serial lights was looking like the royal palace of Mysore
decorated on the eve of Dassehra festival.

          The street was filled with cars, some searching for a parking space. I got a
nagging doubt as to whether I had come to a wrong address. I saw Murty
walking fast towards me through the open gate.

          Wearing a khadi silk dhoti, a shirt of long sleeves and adjusting the uttareeya
(upper cloth) with zari put on the shoulder, he peeped into the car and said,
“Oh! Shruti! You have come! I sent you a telegram, but was doubtful of you
having received it and whether you would come. I have arranged Sravanti’s
marriage here, at my home itself. Why should I deny her proposal? What do
you say?” He wiped out the sweat on his forehead.

          He moved over to another car which just arrived behind me to receive another
guest. He hurriedly told me, “Shruti! You go in. Sujata is there, inside.”
Murty’s wife Sujata came to me and welcomed me to their house. As she was
preoccupied at that time with the function, she showed me a chair and went of
in a hurry.

          I sat there sipping the cool drink offered by somebody from the host’s team.
But my eyes were riveted at observing Murty. He was busy and moving in all
directions and was visible everywhere. He was laughing loudly. Now and then
he was coming to Sujata and taking her advice on the proceedings.
I have got a doubt whether it was the same Murty who wrote the letter to me
ten days ago. Murty came to a gentleman who was sitting in the row ahead of
me.

          He caught Murty’s hand and said, “Hellow! I came to know that you had a
heart attack recently and were admitted in hospital. I was out of station at that
time and went to Kolkata on a business tour.”

          “Oh!…. It’s true. But you know, it is the occasion of my daughter’s marriage
and how things will move if I take rest showing the reason of heart attack?”
Murty was laughing quite loudly.

          “Alas! I heard that your mother expired recently. Then how did you make
arrangements for this marriage?”

          The smile on the face of Murty did not vanish.

          “You see Mr. Ramarao! She was an old lady. Her life time was over and she
passed away. She was a pious lady. We can’t hold back the future for the sake
of time which has elapsed. Is it not?”

          “Yes…. Of course….” He endorsed the view.

          I could gradually understand the situation. Murty had not come out of the
gloomy mood after his mother’s death in which he had written that letter to
me. But now he seems to have become his normal self. I was upset with myself
to have become so disturbed and rushing to see him.

          With a jerk, the train gained speed and moved fast. I tore the letter into pieces
and threw them out of the window.

*****