Mr Ahmed and his Diary

 

13th October 2011

“Tuition and computer classes are more important for them than you dad. Will you be answerable if in future they’re not able to bag high paying jobs. Will you give them the luxuries they require with your meagre savings and your idiotic wordplay etc. activities? They don’t need your fables; they need real education which isn’t possible for them as long as you’re around being a distraction.”

“Yes I know they’re your only source of entertainment. Therefore, we’ve decided you to shift to a retirement home where you’ll find many like you. You can talk to them all day long because just like you they’re also free for the rest of their lives.”

“Of course it’s your home and on important occasions you can come here. In fact, we’ll make sure that every year we celebrate your birthday at our home but at this moment you’re becoming an unnecessary burden on us.”

“I guess you should be relieved that I’m not selling this home like Meher wanted. She wanted us to shift to Mumbai with the money we’ll get after selling this house. However, I’ve told her that you’ve struggled a lot to build this house and thus we’re not going to sell it until your death.”

“Yes dad I’ve talked to the authorities, we’ll be leaving this weekend once I’m done with my official tour.”

This was the last conversation I had with him before leaving the house. My son, my dream, my nightmare.

I have no regrets, I have always lived my life on my terms and do not want to be a burden on anyone.

*****

That was the last entry in the diary lying on the berth no. 55, side lower of Goa Express. The owner of this diary had forgotten it on that berth before getting down at his destination. Except this entry, there were entries about the activities with his grandchild, younger generation’s perspective towards life and some related to his late wife.  I looked for the address or any other kind of information about the owner but none was present except ‘Mr Ahmed’ written on the first page.

“Adnan Ahmed M66 55 SL” displayed the 3AC compartment’s reservation chart along with the information that he was travelling from Pune to Gwalior.

“Do you remember this hand towel and the watch?” A police constable came up to me and asked.

He showed me a mustard coloured hand towel and a round dial HMT watch.  The golden polish of watch’s frame was peeling off at places and the black strap wasn’t looking as old as the watch. Certainly the owner of the watch got the strap changed recently, the watch was working perfectly but I noticed there was a crack on it as if it had a fallen off owner’s wrist.

It was Mr Ahmed’s watch. I remembered, asking him the time while waiting for the train to depart from Pune railway station.

*****

“4:30”, the man wearing a white kurta pyjama replied in an emotionless voice. He didn’t even bother looking at the person asking him the time.

There was something about him that attracted me. He looked lost in his own thoughts as I tried hard to concentrate on the novel I had bought to keep me occupied during the journey. However, after every few minutes his presence was distracting me. He had a look of serenity on his face, as if the man had nothing to lose or gain as if he had lived his life without any regrets. A smile was plastered on his face all this while, but it wasn’t a smile of expectation or some beautiful thought, it was an expression of contentment.

I tried striking conversation with him but monosyllables were all I received in reply.

Throughout the journey he kept his head rested on the windowpane and was looking somewhere far, as if searching for a clue amidst the blue sky, beyond those patches of white clouds. And as I sat there, with all the hustle bustle of the train, I found a look of peace and calm on his face. There was something about him, he wasn’t upset, neither was he happy.

 Does he have any emotions? Was the question popping up in my mind whenever I stared at him. Then suddenly he got down, leaving behind his diary at one obscure railway station.

*****

“Do you remember it?” The constable shook me breaking my thought process.

“Yes I do. It belongs to the man sitting on the berth no. 55.”

“Are you sure?” Constable questioned.

“Yes, but what happened?” I asked but constable just thanked me, and left. Before I could ask him again I spotted some blood stains on the hand towel.

“This can’t be true, he didn’t look like a man who….” Then it hit me,

Gwalior was still 2 hours away.