The Big House
Today was his last day at the big house. He had been but a child of seven when he had first stepped the wide marbled steps leading to the huge archway to the big house. People called it haveli, some even called it kothi, while off late he had often heard it as being referred to as “the bungalow,” especially since its renovation five years ago, when the ornate white cement-carving on its rather tall boundary wall had given way to faux exposed bricks and the wall leading up to the grand archway was decorated with intricate mosaic mural. It actually, for all purposes, looked like a villa now, a beautiful Mediterranean villa. But he had no clue that such a word existed. Besides, right from the day of his arrival, he had called it “bada ghar,” the big house.
Today was his last day the big house. Seven decades had flown by as if they had been in a hurry to get somewhere. But he had no clue where. All he knew was one day he was seven, and his uncle had got him from the village to work for bade sahib. And that’s how it had been in these past seven decades. Bade sahib passed away long ago, and then there was his son and heir, whom he simply referred to as maalik. He had coddled maalik in his arms, tended to his every need, ran behind him, chasing him in a game of catch-me-if-you-can in the lemon orchard; a game that as he had learned over the course of time, he had to lose, no matter how far he could run. And why not? He would do anything to please his maalik.
Today was his last day at the big house. Was he retiring? One doesn’t retire from the big house, one lives and dies for it. But then he was leaving. No, not because once maalik had slapped him. That was so long ago, and so irrelevant now. He had completely forgotten about it of course, except that it was some mistake of his that had provoked the anger. He was leaving simply because his advancing years, his rheumatism made it impossible for him to be of any use to the big house, to maalik, to his son, chhotey sarkar, or to his children thereof. The children were fast growing up. And he could no longer chase them or meet their many demands.
Today was his last day at the big house. And much had changed in the seven decades. He had heard people say that the sun was coming down, and that’s why it was becoming increasingly hotter. And he believed that. The sun was not quite as ferocious decades ago, as it was now. Here, in the city, every summer the garden wilted like a dying patient. But then came rains. He always prayed for good hefty rains. And why not? It was good for all. For the city, the big house, its gardens, and for everybody else. And for the aam bagh, fifty kilometres away from the city, and from where came the big house’s income.
Today was his last day the big house. And where would he go? Till some years ago he had thought that he would go back to his village. There was a hut there that his father had once built, but three summers ago, the rains that were so good for the city, and the big house, and its gardens, and everybody else, had washed away his little hut. But then, he had to go to the village. The little stone room behind the lemon orchard, where he had lived hitherto, had new occupants now. And he had to leave.
Today was his last day at the big house. He wished he could make some ceremony of leaving, like packing glittery gifts for grandnieces and grandnephews back in the village. But he could afford nothing, so he simply packed his raggedy clothes into a neat bundle, and securing it wish a cord, put everything in a small jute bag, together with one pewter tumbler, one razor, and a bar of soap. And as he prepared to leave, he decided to meet maalik and chhotey sarkar, just one more time. How could he leave without touching their feet?
Today was his last day at the big house, and as he made his way across the winding corridors of the big house, the floor of which sparkled like mirror, his left foot slipped on a puddle of water that perhaps someone had spilled. And before he knew, he was lying in a lifeless heap, on the polished floor, now dyed in red of his blood. There was an odd expression on his face. A satisfied smile. As if, he had attained his dying wish.
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