Soon after the doctors confirmed the illness, he decided where he wanted to spend the time he was left with. They gave him an year at the most. His children were skeptical, scared and hesitant but they knew that it was impossible for them to change his mind. There was an unsettling silence in his eyes when he told them about his plan to move in to their ancestral mansion out there in the mountains.
“One last time.” he said.
He had not ask for anything since his wife died and knew he had taken the right decision. He knew how much he needed that and no matter how much they denied, a dying, sick and stubborn eighty year old man is definitely a burden to the children.
During the first week of summer, he moved into the mighty mansion that stood a couple of miles away from the village overlooking the entire valley. He chose to stay in the master bedroom that was towards the western end of the building. Nurses were appointed and weekly visits from the doctor were arranged. Mornings were bright and warm with clear blue skies accompanied by calm and cozy nights. The old man spent most of the time indoors where an army of servants attended and treated him. Every once in a while, he went on early morning strolls, walking past the few small houses at the end of the boulevard that lead to the mansion. His treatment, even though could not alter the inevitable, gave him enough strength to put up a fight. He did not have much to do all day except read. However, each evening he walked on to the balcony in his room while the sun disappeared into the mountains. It wasn’t the crimson sky that he wanted to see. It was the woman who watered the plants in the flower garden below. She never knew that he was watching her but he was there everyday observing her every move, her gentleness towards the flowers and the freshness in her smile. He began to wake up in the morning only to wait for the sun to set.
Then came the rains cleansing the mountains and painting them green. She now worked inside the mansion as per his personal request to the caretaker. She was offered a hefty raise and a room to stay inside the mansion along with her teen aged son who was reluctant at first but agreed so that she would have a better life that he could never provide. The old mas saw her more often now and because of the rains, they mostly stayed indoors which left them with no other option but to explore each others company. She became his personal caretaker and stayed with him most of the time even though they did not have much to talk about. They often sat looking out while the woods drenched in the rain and spoke about the valley and the people. No matter how much he tried to make her feel comfortable, she still saw him as a stranger. He however saw her as one of his own, a very familiar being, someone very personal. He asked her numerous questions about her childhood, her life in the mountains and her son. She answered patiently talking about her mother, who also worked at the mansion until she died, her dead husband and her stubborn son. When it was her turn to ask, it was mostly about his life away from the mountains. He answered them calmly and elaborately even if he was tired. He told her stories from his visits all over the world. She began to pay attention to him and slowly began to see him as a real person rather than an old enigma. His voice often broke and sometimes he fell asleep in the middle of the conversation but she was a kind soul and took good care of him. They had supper together and she read him the bible at night. He did not care for what she was reading. He only wanted to be close to her and listen to her. See her live.
*****
By the time the rains started to recede, they grew fond of each other. She now moved into a much bigger room in the western corridor. Her son used the car to move in and out the village. She looked forward for the times she could spend with him. The doctors visited more often as he grew weaker. He struggled to speak and remained silent most of the time. He listened carefully to what ever she had to say. It was as if he was treasuring all that and saving it for a journey he was about to take. As winter began to set in, she spoke to him about being thankful and about the challenges and hurdles that god throws at people and how when it was all over, faith was what would remain. Such assurances were not new to him but he listened because she felt very dear. He used to close his eyes and give a nod when ever she finished saying something and looked at him for approval. She would then go on to the next story.
The villagers were not so kind about the happenings in the mansion. Such is the nature of the feeble minded. Being able to appreciate life and realize that all good things are good is not for everyone. They shared stories of the old man not all of which were true. The elderly folk spoke about how he had mistresses back when he used the mansion during the summer as a young man. Some of the stories reached her but she did not care to bother. But the stories continued to spread. They asked her questions whenever she met them. What was he like? Was he dying? What does he talk about? How much do they pay her? and so on. She paid no heed to all that was being said and continued with her life in the mansion. Her son too had to face those stories but unlike his mother, he felt the urge to defend their relationship and he often got into fights trying to. He often argued with his mother. Young blood. The old man had no idea about the stories that were in circulation down in the village. He was glad she was with him. Coming to the mountains was a good decision, he thought. She was the only reason he wanted to live.
When winter started to be merciless, the old man’s suffering became severe. Every time he moved, it hurt. He became pale and the wrinkles on his face barely gave way to his expressions. His skin became numb. All that he could feel was her touch when she took him on to the balcony every evening while he closed his eyes and tried to feel the soothing winter winds. Four weeks into winter, he lost his voice. He could no longer call out for her. His children came to visit one weekend but he insisted they leave within two days. She understood his muffled voices and attended to him patiently and gently. He often wrote thank you notes for her. His shivering hands made the notes clumsy but she treasured them and often showed them to her son.
*****
On a cold night, she was taking a nap, tired after reading the bible to him. He wanted to stay there watching over her. He looked at her face while she slept and noticed how familiar she appeared. She seemed to be having an anxious dream. She was breathing heavily and kept making rapid eyes movements. He wanted to sooth her and so he took her arm into his hands. He began to gently brush away the hair falling on her face when all of a sudden her son walked in. He became furious and in a fit of rage, pushed the man away from her. She woke up to all the commotion and stopped her son before he could make a second attack. The servants sent the mother and son away that night. They never returned.
She felt a tender indifference to the whole thing. Often looking through the tiny window of her room towards the mansion, she wondered what he would be doing. She wondered if he could survive without her. She missed him. He stopped coming out of his room, not even to the balcony. He was bed ridden and was not sure what to look forward to after waking up.
It was the coldest night of the year. Villagers sat around fires and told stories to each other, some of which featured the old man. Inside the mansion, he was in his bed breathing heavily surrounded by his family and doctors. She curled up in her bed, worried about how he would survive such a cold night, having no idea about what was happening in the mansion. She starting praying.
The next morning was surprisingly bright and warm.
“Summer had come early,” her son predicted while having breakfast.
News of the old man’s death did not seem to deter him. She too remained quite all morning until there was a knock on the door. It was the servant from the mansion with a sealed note. She took it, immediately recognizing the writing that was unclear, making it clear who the writer was. She read it, came back silently to her seat and thought about the last time she had cried in her life. It was when her mother died. She never knew who her father was and never really cared, until then. Her son came and took the note from her hand and it read:
“Sorry child. Sorry for not telling you that I am your father and sorry for being such a horrible one.”
The Cannibal 