Ram Singh has lived the life of ordeals with fortitude. Honesty and modesty with a tinge of submissiveness have been the guiding principles of his life.
Now, that he is old doesn’t bring any compassion or concession to his age in the cruel world of hardship; his life demands that he worked as hard as he has done so far. He always talks with a great economy of words. This gives the impression that he is essentially an introverted man of his inner self.
He has black hair, greying completely at the temple. Wrinkles have shown all over his forehead, straight as a ploughman’s furrows. His sunburned face tells the tale of a life of hardships and toil. Though he has weak constitution, yet he is very feisty in spirit. He would rather keep quite than lie; would rather die than hurt a fly; rather starve than steal.
He is living under the impression that others don’t like him for he is not a man of means. Yet, , no one cares to hold compassion towards him. It seems as if he never paid attention, what people talked about him. He complains to no one of his segregation to this society. In a world full of cynicism he trusts none else than his own soul. That too to some extent. His sturdy legs support him well enough to ensure him a manly creature. His once stiff body has now started bulging out. Often he can be seen hold an old traditionally carved plough gently in his hands while going to field in the morning. And in the evening, stomping on the pavements of his field he sets off to his hut.
“Gamacha” hangs down heavy from the shoulders. Big knot is conspicuous and it assures Ram Singh that lentils would not find its place on the ground. Twilight of the setting sun in horizon makes him more of a golden eagle, plough indicating the end of its wings spreading over the fields.
Once Ram Singh too was young and determined but still the blood that ran in his nerves carries the impression of his well known virility. Ram Singh was such a strange character that it was so huge a task to sketch him down on a canvas. I have not known whether someone ever did it . People told stories about Ram Singh that he was as meek and mild as would not hurt a fly. Once jolly, now Ram Singh wore no more the shimmer of laugh on his face. Black beard now fades the shine of his face which covers most of it. It grew more rapidly at the base of the chin. Velvet clad body was now left to the mercy of sun at day and miniature fleas and insects at night which bothered him quite often. His behavior now is as calm as deep ocean. He never talked to anyone around. On the contrary, if someone approached him he would weasel out of the scene rather than indulge in conversation and would never care to look back so as to know who actually was interested in conversing with him.
Had postmaster, his only friend, not divulged it to the public, no body could have known for what reasons he was bent upon throwing his life away to the lord of depression.
Ram Singh was a wrestler, rather well known wrestler. Many a time he was champion. He had been away from the village for long or since he had attained fame in wrestling. He even owned a grand house at the corner of Duncan Street well known for the eminent residents. Attached to this house was green garden surrounded by a steel fence and hosting more than 200 species of flowers including some creepers which had covered the best of the front wall. Fresh aroma of flowers soothed everyone in the street. In the middle of the garden there was one gazebo and very next to it was a pool of water. Some exotic birds perched at the roof and created a noise by chirping at their full blow but Ram Singh was generous not to fly them away. In fact he liked their company when he sat down there sipping a cup of tea and threw pebbles into the pool water. Ripples thus created in the water thus played symphony of his harmony with nature birds featured the role of orchestra.
Interiors of the house matched to that of the king’s living room. Everything was placed in order and in an elegant manner. A pair of guns was giving aesthetic appeal on the wall. Ram Singh wore a golden medal attached to a silky string around his neck and it was glittering in the scattered pearls of sunrays. It was a title bestowed upon him by the king. It sang the songs his glory and strength all the way. There were many more lying around on the mantelpiece, but this was special. The one which Ram Singh had decided never to part from. All this came at a price.
Ram Singh was physically burly. He was as long as 6 feet and wore a wardrobe tied by a silky rope at center and accentuating his tough body even more. Face shined as moist leaves do when shimmering crescent falls upon them. A line of hairs grew over the upper lip to form moustaches. And it made him look like a typical Indian Pahalwan.
This postmaster had known him for long as very often he would drop in to his house and read out the letters and notices to him and sometimes letters of appreciation and greetings from his fans.
Ram Singh had a daughter too whose mother passed away few months after she gave birth to her. Meena was the only keepsake she had left behind ever since she closed her eyes never to open again.
Ram Singh had brought her up and showered the love of both mother and father on her. She was now an adult of sixteen and rumors of her love affair with a coward boy started all around. Her adolescence bothered Ram Singh too but not to the extent that would turn him off. Ram Singh was suspicious whether his daughter could understand the play of hormones at this stage. He was much concerned about his daughter. Meena was confident to walk over to him and assure him that nothing had happened and she would not dare a step without her father’s permission. Smile returned on his face and he embraced her. Then she walked away. A drop of a tear trickled down his cheeks as he stood there watching her till the moment she disappeared into the room. It was perhaps fatherly love which departed from the eye in the form of droplet else he was never known for shedding tears even if you snapped his body into pieces.
Meena was a very beautiful and at the peak of her adolescence. Her outfits usually consisted of a series of light pink clothes woven in gold threads and silk. A pink rose was pinned to her bosom. Her scented long hairs fumigated the surrounding. Her lips were as delicate as petals of rosemary. She was perfect portrait in herself. One could not help looking at her and certainly fall for her subsequently.
This fellow was no different an example. Initiated talk ended up in repeated meetings and later resulted in their friendship. And their friendship blossomed into love. Meena had warned the boy not to come around her house come what may. She wanted to tell her father what had happened but every time she tried she could not muster the courage enough to blurt out happenings. Then she would go back to her cabin and speak while tears finding way out of her eyes “Father Manu is a handsome and brave young man and I would not find a match better than Manu ever. He is not coward as people speak of him.”
It was Saturday. They met again and embraced each other with due love. This time only to foist Manu not to see her unless she gets things approved by her father.
Little did they know that in the hope of healthy pursuit of happiness there was something other than pleasure eagerly waiting for them.
Spring had set in. Thefts were on rise as the wide sheet of fog stretched all around helped them. This very week there had been burglaries and burglars escaped unnoticed. People were now wise after incident.
Manu could not resist temptation and defied the rules enacted upon him by Meena.
Ram Singh was as usual wondering in his garden with his weapon. But today it was little longer because he was stuck in quagmire of thoughts. A reflection suddenly appeared just below the window to Meena’s cabin. Ram Singh roared at the black shape giving impressions of probably a thief. Stop! You there! Frightened or terrified he hurried with greater pace towards the pane. Ram Singh at once rushed to the house and walked out with a lethal weapon clutched firmly in his hand. He shot at once at the shape and with a bang it hit the ground. Meena too got up at once and as she looked out of the window down there laid a handsome Youngman of 18 dead on the ground and blood dripping him wet. He held in his hands a bunch of flowers still smelling fresh. No sooner had she confirmed that the guy was Manu, she jumped down the window and found her way to heaven if it ever existed. Ram Singh shrieked Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeenaaaaa ……. But even before he could finish, Meena was no more and aggravated his sorrow. Ram Singh went down on his knees and screamed in much pain than a father could for her daughter. The beautiful garden was soon plunged into the grief and mourning.
Clock showed 12 and yes off course it was Manu who had dared to wish Meena her birthday at what so ever cost he had to pay. Merely a boy of 18 with a face very similar to the few months child. No one could ever believe him to have committed some crime howsoever he did not. Indeed he was ignorant.
Ram Singh was sentenced to imprisonment. He was found guilty of killing two people. Ram Singh said nothing at all. One of the advocates saved him from being hanged and reduced his sentence to seven years. When they freed him he never went to his place again. All his possessions were left to their own devices. After all he had lost his most valuable possession ever and proved failure to the promise which he made to his wife before she passed away. This blow he could never heal. Since then he decided to keep aloof in an old hut which belonged to his forefathers.
Only few hours back Ram Singh had returned from fields and postmaster knocks his door as there is a mail for him. When his call stood unanswered postmaster informed villagers. They broke the silence and shattered the door. Post master runs towards the cot. Ram Singh has given up said post master. Moonlight through small orifice in the roof reaches the golden medal still lying on his chest as if identifying the glory again. Glory has come to an end rather paled into insignificance. Mail to Ram Singh was form nowhere, means there was no address mentioned upon it. Post master takes the pain to open it and take out the card from within that reads,
"Rest in peace Ram Sigh.It was me who shot the boy dead.My apologies".
-Your old rival
