I am 72, an age when one waits not for the morning but for
the night. I think a lot nowadays, sitting in the veranda of my little house
when I let my memories roam freely. During a recent ruminating afternoon, I saw
my neighbour, Savitri, hobbling down the road.
“Biting the nails as usual?” she called out as she entered the jasmine-arched gate. Savitri is a cheerful soul, though she is racked by arthritic pains. “Stir yourself now. I am taking you to a friend’s home.” Being two years older, Savitri feels she has the right to order me about.
Savitri’s friend was charming but it was her daughter Vani, who struck a chord in my heart. Vani was a lovely girl, intelligent, yet soft and gentle. She showed me beautiful sketches, unusually designed birthday cards, doggerels and limericks---there seemed no end to her creativity. I noticed that she limped but decided to enquire about it later.
“Can you write a limerick in my young friend Sarat Rao’s honour?” I asked her. “It is his birthday next week.” “That would be fun,” she replied. “Describe him to me.” After I did so, she disappeared into her room and returned some time later with a beautifully bordered letter paper on which was inscribed:
There was a gentleman called Rao
With peace
writ over his brow
He loved
flowers and trees
And the
scent in the breeze
His garden
was paradise enow!
“That suits him perfectly. Thank
you.” I said.
On our way back, Savitri explained the limp. “She is a
brilliant research student. A rash biker knocked her down six months ago. She
has been through major surgery and painful physiotherapy sessions.”
And I had thought that the young had nothing to give me!
