The Crimson Sundown :

The Crimson Sundown:

Sitting up on bed, I look out at the golden ball going downhill, immersing the tell-tale mountain tops with the zigzagging village pathways crisscrossing around the foothills in a crimson hue. The gentle breeze blowing in through the gaps in the wooden frames of the glass window makes me draw the curtains across. I snap the blanket away to get out of bed to turn on the light. The dusty plastic packet with "Drishti" (eyesight) written over it on top of the cupboard beneath the switchboard, reminds me of the days when life was full of sunshine and love. My mind goes back to the days pre-post the cataract operation, not to forget the time in between, when my sister came to our ancestral home to look after my recovery and how ungrateful a brother I turned out to be… .. 

Exactly a month before my cataract operation, my wife left me after one of our notorious one-to-ones. We yelled and shrieked and threw things at one another non stop throughout the day. Then, after the sun had gone down, she picked up a rucksack, threw some clothes in and stepped out of the house. After her departure, I felt ill at ease in the ensuing pin drop silence that descended in my room. Why did she leave me like that? What made us pick on one another in the first place? 

Fortunately, my sister, who was working for an old age home at that time, flew in to my rescue. She cooked for me, (Don't I have to cook for myself, she asked me. It matters little whether I cook for one or two.) did the dishes, swept and scrubbed my room, and acted more like our mother we had lost many sunny days ago. 

"Please don't carry that heavy bucket, Bappa. Remember what the doc said? You're not to carry any heavy stuff for the next 6 months." She whimpered when she caught me trying to carry the bucket from the tap to the bathroom the following week. 

"Don't sweep the courtyard," she cried out another morning when I was trying to clean the area in front of my room. "If any dust particles get into your eyes, you may be blind for the rest of your life."

Exactly a month after the operation my wife called to inform me of her decision to get back to our place the next day. She asked me to go pick her up from the rented house where she had been staying. 

That night when I informed my sister of my wife's decision, she seemed quite relieved. 

"Bappa, please let's not take the meals together any more. This will help us maintain good relations."

I didn't tell her anything at that time but found it quite difficult to even take some snacks without my sister. For nearly a month she had done everything for me, taken great care. What kind of brother would I be to ignore her presence in our ancestral home just like that after the return of my wife? 

So, I would offer her a cup of black tea or the fish curry cooked by my wife once in a while. 

On coming back from the market one day, my sister handed me a packet of cookies. The day before she had bought some sweets for my family which no one else other than myself relished.

"Stop buying things for us. Why do you always do that?" I asked with my hands on my back. 

"I just bought one packet for myself and as the shopkeeper had no change, bought one more for you."

I was busy watching a movie on TV when my wife clanged down the plate containing my dinner beside me. I paused the cliff-hanger with the remote and, on getting up, found another bowl of the chana-bhatura. The bowlful was meant for my sister. 

I dashed up the steps and knocked on her door. She had confined herself to her room lately. 

"Why have you taken the trouble to climb up the steps, Bappa? The staircase is extremely slippery. If you happen to fall…."

She noticed the bowl in my hand and asked me to wait. I noticed from the door that she was preparing something in a blackened karai (cauldron) for dinner.

"Though I ain't as good a cook as Radha (my wife), please take this curry for you two." She handed me almost the entire content of the karai. 

When I came down and offered it to my wife, she showed no interest in the curry. 

I took the bowl of chana-bhatura out of my plate and poured the curry that my sister had cooked onto it. I couldn't take all the rotis that my wife made for me and finally dumped one along with a portion of the curry into the bin. I went up to my sister's room next. 

"Why do you take so much trouble to prepare something for my family?"

"You're always offering me this and that….. I feel ashamed…...."

"I have asked my wife not to offer you anything from tomorrow on. Do you get that? I told you earlier not to buy stuff for us, did I not?" I barked in a thick voice.  

"Bappa, I've been looking for a job. Once I find a place to stay in, I won't create any problems for you… . "

Her words kind of stung me. 

"Oh, so you want everyone to take me for a selfish, ungrateful brother? The whole world knows how loving and caring you've been during my operation, right? Apparently I am so selfish that I don't even seem to care two hoots about you. That's how you want to set things up." I hissed out at her, teasing and taunting. 

Sister didn't reply to my accusations and queried :

"When did I accuse you of anything? "

Having banged her door shut as I was climbing down the stairs, she came from behind to hand over the "Drishti" plastic packet with all the prescriptions inside, without uttering a word. 

Sister left a few days afterwards, never to set foot in our ancestral home again. She did not blame me for how mean I had been to her, and had nothing but good things to say about me and my family, so I learnt from others. 

I crawl back to my bed and pull the curtains apart. The sun was long gone, illuminating the sky in some sort of orange streaks. The dark, chill night outside with the whistling winds fills me with an inexpressible emptiness and pain. I heave out a deep sigh and gather the blanket tightly about me.