CRIME AND PENANCE
In my early
forties, for a prolonged period of time I was serving as a clergyman in one of
the churches in the Himachal. The serenity of the mountains standing in their
own majestic grandeur, the tranquility of the dawns in the oak, pine,
fir-inhibited side-roads, the enigma of the chirping crickets in the otherwise
chilly, mute nights and the unadulterated heartiness in the simple folks that
dwelled these mountains—all blended into one spirited ambience, which smelt of
holiness and divinity. Far from the impulsive outcry of the concrete
civilization, in a long time, I was finally able to come into the vicinity of
my true soul. The soul, that had drowned in the multitude of souls, who come
seeking penance and reform in the abode of the Almighty. And I, having taken
upon myself the most fulfilling occupation of providing them with the little
help, that I can—illuminating their pensive, remorseful faces with optimism and
hope by reading excerpts from the Bible—could never afford to complain for
little sacrifices like self-obliviousness. Yet, in some leisurely afternoon…
walking a desolate pine forest all by myself, when I would suddenly get
confronted by my inner being, I couldn’t help rolling out tears of ecstasy.
To sum it
up, my days were quite pleasant. The weekdays would keep me busy with teaching
the children in the church-affiliated school. In Sundays, I would conduct the
customary prayer at the Church, followed by attending to the confessions. There
weren’t many of them, as these people were mostly free from evils common of an
ambitious society. Yet, I would come across a few striking, condemnable
revelations, behind those confessionals, which would throw my entire belief in
good and God for a momentary toss in the air! Today such an appalling story, is
doing the rounds of my mind, and I intend to write about it, as vividly as I
remember it.
One Sunday
afternoon, after the prayers were said and the people were merry and stepping
out of the church—some with bliss written on their faces, some being the usual
playful folk, they were and others being the ever-grim ones—I noticed a young
girl still seated in one of the pews. She was about sixteen or seventeen—fair,
pretty like a new-bloom—still struggling to shrug off the husk of her adolescence
and approaching adulthood with baby steps. But the most arresting feature about
her was her sad face, which bore unmistakable signs of such intense, crushing
agony, that was uncharacteristic of a girl of her age. She was holding a
handkerchief against her nose, which was a flush of crimson now, and weeping
silently, I observed.
“Is it the
words of the Holy Book, or your inner demons that have brought tears to you, my
child?” I asked, sitting next to her.
“It’s my own
doings, Father.” She said, still struggling to get her voice straight.
“You are in
the house of God, my child. You can tell me whatever is bothering you. I assure
you, that you are going to feel better, thereafter.”
“I can’t… I
can’t father! My deeds are so deplorable, that I am too scared to even utter
them in words!” she continued in the broken voice, “I believe, I am destined to
stay miserable all my life, with this hideous secret buried in my heart forever!”
What could a
youth of such a tender age have possibly done that had brought her this amount
of trauma and tribulation? I wondered.
“Calm down
my child. There is no such crime or wrongdoing in this universe, which cannot
be forgiven if there is repentance in your heart for it! And what best place to
repent than in front of the Prince of Peace Himself? Come with me. Come to the
confession chair and pour out all your heart; come and unburden yourself.”
She followed
me despondently, to the confessional, and we positioned each other on either
sides of the wooden partition. There, with much hesitation and guilt, she
started narrating her extraordinarily agonizing story.
My name is Florence. I was eleven
years old, when my grandfather and I had come here. My mamma and papa died in a
car accident while returning from a wedding at Delhi. Earlier we were a happy family.
Me, mamma, papa and my Grandpa. My parents were both working, so most of the
time I was left at the care of my grandfather. And he never ever did let me
feel, that I was missing out on something. I can proudly say that even if my
mamma would have raised me, she wouldn’t be able to do it better than my
Grandpa. He would walk me to school, pick me up after school and buy me
marshmallows and ice-cream, take me to play at the park in the evening and even
sing me lullabies when I went to bed. So, I can’t really claim that even after
my parents’ tragic demise, I missed them too badly. Yes, at times the dining
table would seem far bigger, with only two souls occupying it instead of four.
The mornings would be awkwardly quiet, without the regular clamor, my parents
used to create before leaving for their respective jobs. Worst would be the
weekends, which had turned uneventful all of a sudden. Earlier, my mamma would
cook new dishes from her recipe book on Sundays, and my papa and Grandpa would
together water the flowers in the garden. After their death, I would often find
Grandpa standing in the garden alone, looking at those flowers with a blank
expression. Though I wasn’t so grief-stricken as I should have been, I felt perhaps
he was quite shaken. He wasn’t quite the same jolly old man, after the
accident. He would do the chores fine and look after me to the best of his
abilities, but the ever-lasting smile on his face had disappeared. That was the
only one thing that got me concerned during the whole tragic episode.
That year, when my school’s term
ended, he sold our house at a dirt cheap price, packed both our bags and
brought me here. By then probably he was at the end of his tether. The old
house, along with the memories of his loved ones was getting the better of him,
and I would often hear sobbing noises at night from my room. So, when he
decided to move, I was more than happy. I loved him, and wanted to see him in
joy and peace.
And joy did finally make its way into
our residual family, in the form of a two month-old male sheepdog! Grandpa was
returning from the market, when he saw a young white man, who seemed to him
like a hippie, sitting on the street with a basket filled with five extremely
adorable, shaggy puppies with a huge
coat of grey-white fur. Curious, he
stopped to ask the man, what breed they were.
“They’re called Old English Sheepdogs,
sir.” replied the man, “We call them Bobtails. Very good temperament, sir. Care
to take one? They’re free!”
The bonny-looking puppies with their
thick fur coat and their little black eyes gingerly peeping out from the basket
melted my grandfather’s heart, instantly.
“I’d rather pay. How much?” said he
and stooped down to face the puppies, “Now, which one of you is gonna come with
me?”
One of them gave out a meek bark and
leapt on to his arms, which he had held out in warm invitation. My grandfather
paid for him and carried him in his arms, all the way to home, playfully
rubbing his back, imitating his shy barks to amuse him and slowly sowing the
seeds of an intimate kinship that was
about to develop.
That was the first time Martin came home.
Yes, my grandfather named him Martin, after the revered American leader.
Probably because the way Luther King Jr. had ushered hope and motivation in the
minds of countless African Americans during the Civil Rights movement, Martin
too had brought new zeal and color to his bleak life. And not just his, even my
life was transformed by Martin’s advent! For the first time, I got a taste of
how it felt to have a sibling! He made up for all the emptiness and dejection
that had shrouded us since my parents’ death. The mornings were again clamorous
from Martin’s vandalization of the living room and Grandpa shouting at him.
Now, both of them accompanied me to my new school up here and hence the fun was
doubled! The weekends would keep both of us occupied with brushing Martin’s
long furry coat. Now, however endearing and cute these shaggy creatures look, a
herculean amount of effort has to be put behind keeping them clean. You skip a
week’s cleaning, and the coat starts trapping dust, debris, urine and moisture!
However, Martin’s fooling around and amusing antics would make even this
arduous task joyful for us and we’d be splashing water in the garden, with Grandpa
running behind the little puck and by the end of the session, all three of us
would have had a fair share of the bath!
...TO BE CONTINUED
...TO BE CONTINUED
-Samman Roy
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