That Day

He looked at his shop, engulfed completely in a quilt of darkness. Except for that momentary tingling of the sepia light bulb, that seemed to have gulped a bottle of country liquor. Walking slowly, each of his steps made sure to make the least possible noise, but for the truant dried leaves, which were still crunched under his white chappals. He stopped momentarily, listening to the uncanny silence being punctuated by the sudden rumbling noise of a distant cloud, and a few leaves rustling with the winds caressing them. But no other sound, of boots, marching, or a sign of any military movement. He entered the shop through a back door, and closed it shut, then and there. He dropped the brown package on the rickety old chair, sending a flurry of dust particles in the air. The package had almost lost its brown colour, and seemed to open up any moment if not for the rubber band that held it together.

Patterned knocks. Faint, but just enough for his old ears to comprehend. One by one, his grocery shop got filled up with people of various ages, but what astounded him, like every other day, was how quiet they stayed. A low murmur that may well be mistaken for the brain playing tricks. Few candles were lit, soon. They smiled at each other. Hopes twinkled in their eyes, like every other day. He knew some of them, who walk miles after miles, just to hear that news. Would that be today? Or do they have to wait again? Living, layered in an atmosphere of fear, ears, waiting to hear the boots, that would send chills through the body.

Five minutes left. For the news bulletin. He uncovered his most prized possession. Something that stayed with him, all through his seventy-five-year-old life. His radio. Plastered at various junctures, taped at many other places, but the signal strength is better than the newer ones. That’s his reply when anyone asks him to change it.

The round knob, croaked, as the radio tried to catch the frequency to the local news channel, he kept twisting and turning the knob, as the voice changed from shriller, to shrill and slowly, reaching normalcy. And there it was, all set. Only the anchor needs to start.

Two minutes left. He adjusted his hearing-aid, which seemed to go from bad to worse, making it so difficult for him to carry out his day-to-day job. Daily laborers, fishermen, children, farmers, women, people from various strata of life, kept listening on. They hoped the radio wouldn't break down before the news. They also hoped they could finally see what lies behind that mysterious brown package that is brought every single night to the shop. Whenever anyone asked, they were rebuked by a wave of a hand asking to wait for the special day. One day, a truant boy tried to go behind the back and open it as it laid on the chair. Alas! A quick reflex and down came a hand on the shoulder.

A sound. Did it start already? No, not yet. Five more minutes. These five minutes is all they have, in the whole day to gather and listen. And why wouldn’t they? The crickets still kept singing, although the radio sound was able to mask them a bit. Almost time. His ears touched the radio but why could he not hear anything? He tapped his aids again, no sound. But the others, they seemed to understand, and nodded, their lips seemed to move more and more as seconds passed. His confused face, strewn with sweats, trickling over the wrinkled landscape, tried to make sense of it all.

A shrill sound. He heard faint murmurs again, and in a matter of seconds, an uproar, the room seemed to explode any second, the sound waves going helter-skelter, the audience, dancing with joy, hugging and crying, a few already on the streets, as he heard many more voices joining them. Is this really it?

He looked around as people hugged him, but he wanted to hear it, hear it with his own ears. Getting hold of a face, he asked, he asked what his throbbing heart wanted to ask, for long, since long.

“Uncle, we’re finally Independent. Uncle, we’re an independent nation.”

Trying so hard to control the sea of tears, tears that kept rolling on and on, his cheeks, all so moist, a sense of unknown happiness calmed his soul, as he kept looking at the radio and then at the photo of his forefathers on the wall. His front door was ajar, as people celebrated, the noise seemed like honey to his ears. The flickering street light was now glowing, glowing much more, than ever before.

His trembling hands moved towards the brown package, with his hands opening the strands from it. His eyes, blinded by tears that fell on the packet which immediately absorbed it the very next second. Out came the shawl. That his daughter lovingly had weaved with her own hands for him, to be worn only when the day of independence would arrive. It had little patterns of the national flag drawn around the borders. His hands felt the texture, his soul could almost feel each and every moment when her hands stitched it all together. Her smell still seemed to reside in that shawl. He wore it and stood up. His blank eyes stared towards the horizon.

He should be proud. And not cry. He should be proud that freedom fighters like his daughter, were responsible for today. This moment. Their blood, their sacrifice for the motherland didn’t go in vain. Never. They'll be remembered, forever.

His ears returned back to the sounds outside. People were shouting and singing and playing. Amongst the ecstatic people shouting and celebrating, he felt he also saw his daughter. Smiling and happy. He tightened the shawl through his body, properly. The ends of it kept fluttering in the wind as he leaped ahead to join them all. The brown package kept flying in the wind, away, away.

***