The old man put his glasses on. The first line in the letter read: You bastard, I found you! The old man smiled. He couldn't mistake the hand-writing for anything else in the world. Those pronounced curves that merged into each other only to appear beautiful to a partial English teacher. Only to her! The old man smirked. The surprise letter had been the only funny thing that happened to him in days. He read on: This is what I hope for you - by the time this letter finds you, I hope your handwriting has improved a little and your grandson's teacher won't know it was you who did his homework.And that he won't be punished like I did when you did mine. The old man laughed. His handwriting was still the same. Still better than him.
Somewhere his dog whined. Only a few moment's ago, he had beaten his dog with his walking stick when the dog didn't sit when he commanded it to. The foolish dog wagged its tail and looked at his master with its tongue dangling out while the old man nearly had a heart attack trying to make the dog sit. He stole a hateful glance at the dog who sat in a corner whining and licking his hind leg where the stick hit.
That by the time this letter finds you, your head once full of hairs must be shining like a moon. Be prepared to be laughed at when I see you. Just like you made fun of me in college. You bastard. And you remember Neha, the girl whom I went to propose and came back with a rose that she asked to give to you. "He is your best friend. Please give it to him. Tell him I love his hairs," she had said. I hope she is bald too. The old man looked at the mirror. He still had his hairs. It was in his genes, he always said. "I still have them, rascal," the old man murmured and smiled. He continued to read.
That by now, you falter with the smallest peg of whiskey! Remember how you laughed at me the next morning after we had drinks and I lost control and always blabbered about girl friends and talked about things pretending to be the most intelligent. Come on now. One drink and we will see who is in control now. Yes, he could not drink that much now. The doctor had asked him not to. But the old man was not the ones who would listen to others.
And remember those packs of cigarettes that your mother found in your bag and you said they were mine. I hope you get cursed in hell for that. The old man put the letter down, took off his glasses and laid back on his chair. His eyes moved around the empty room furnished with all the things that needed a lot of money to buy. Rooms that he couldn't see were empty too. His wife, his friend for all those years had left him. She said he smoked too much, that he didn't listen to her. Why should he? He was a grown up man not needing anyone to tell him what to do. And what not to do. His fingers fumbled with the envelope that had brought the letter. There was something else in it. Something little. He upturned the envelope. A cigarette, half smoked fell down. There was something familiar about it. He couldn't remember what. He put back his glasses and read on.
That by the time this letter finds you, your knees rattle when you walk. Let alone driving that damned bike of yours you could drive so fast. Well the old man had just crossed seventy years of age. If knees wouldn't rattle then whose would?
That by the time this letter finds you, you remember the last letter I sent you. Forty-two years ago. The old man remembered. They had had a fight. Over what, the old man couldn't remember. But something told him that whatever it was, it should have been judged small enough. But it wasn't. That wretched day, that cause seemed bigger than everything. He stopped talking to his friend. His friend tried to reach him. The old man didn't heed. He felt happy enough when his friend stopped trying. They didn't even say good-bye. Then came that letter, forty-two years ago. It had said, "One day we will look back at all this and we will laugh at each other. I know that day will come. We will be old then. Very old. But mark this my friend. I won't leave this world without smoking that last cigarette with you." The old man continued to read.
That by the time this letter finds you, you would have stopped judging people for what they are not. That you would have started loving them for what they are. No matter how different from you. No matter how inferior to you in your eyes. I hope that you have learned that man must not live by what the world regards as high, by what could set a man apart. For every man is different, unique. All that matters is what we see. The old man was too late for that. Somewhere his dog whined. The old man got and fed his dog with milk. He would drink milk too for he was too old to cook anything on his own. His son left him too and with him left his daughter-in-law and his grandson. Why? Because the son wanted to be an artist. And in the old man's opinion, artists were no different than road side musicians playing flutes with an open bag in front for people to spare some change. Not a worthy man's job that his son wanted to do. But... but... he was still his son... His own son who had brought happiness to his otherwise lonely life. It all started with his friend. A little tussle and that day the old man had decided that he was better off without a friend, without the people he had spent his entire childhood with. His wife left and then his son. Everybody who cared for him. And all that remained now was the old man and his dog. One day the dog would leave too. What would he do then? Was it all worth it? His eyes watered. Then something magical happened - his dog, who only a little while back was beaten by his master, as if sensing his master's grief, left his bowl of milk, walked up to the old man and started to lick his open palm. The old man looked in the dog's eyes and saw reflection of himself. He looked tired, old and alone. The old man cried. Like a child. Never before he had been alone to cry like this, never before he would have anyone see him like this - weakened. The dog wouldn't mind. The dog whined too, put its paws in his lap and started to lick his face. The old man held his dog like he was that friend, that old friend from a time long gone. And he knew, he had bring everyone back - his wife, his son and son's family, his grandson, and last but not the least, his old friend. And then he would tell his grandson the stories of the two friends, of their childhood. He read on, hastily.
That by the time this letter finds you, fire would have gone off my old body and my bones would be tumbling somewhere over the holy river. As one of my last wish, I had my son bring me a cigarette that I smoked half and sent the rest to you with this letter. I kept my promise of having that last cigarette with you. You know I was always a crazy man. Smoke it and die :) The old man smiled. The old friend never changed. He read on.
We had a long time together my friend. I only hope it could've been longer. For long we ran after things we thought would matter most and we earned them. But none could fill the holes people left in my life. I'm sure your life won't be any different. My life ends here and it ends without regrets. Its just that if there is another life and if you get it too - which is difficult because I will bribe god to book a seat for you in hell :) - then I hope that we won't make the mistakes we made in this life. That we value what should have been valued. That we forgive what should have been forgiven. That we allow what should have been allowed. That rather than sending it in an envelope and hoping the postman doesn't smoke it on the way, we get to smoke the last cigarette together.
Yours faithfully,
An Old Friend...
Images and text are copyright of the author.
