Fading Away
Photo: Karan Madhok
Short story by Aishwarya Khale: ‘When I thought about the past, I thought about memory. I wondered if Mr Shinde would forget us, like shattered dolls collapsing through the broken chambers of his mind.’
It was the monsoon of the year when the floods at the port got worse. The monsoon when the oil spill in the bay had reduced the marine sale by eleven percent, and the multinational business had launched a fish breeding factory by the port. It was the monsoon when they found a traveller washed ashore in front of the shipping dock.
The evening the old man left, the radio reported the untimely death of an unidentified traveller and of the rising sea storm. The moon had waned into a crescent and the port lights shimmered like daffodils in the distance.
I was stationed at the port town when I got a promotion at the ice shipping company. Surrounded by the constant traffic of the ships and the brawls at the fisheries, the port had a unique quality that didn’t grow upon one right away. I had escaped from my home town soon after my graduation. My father never asked me why; and I never told him. Mother would call me on the weekends, but she, too, eventually stopped. They had exhausted the likes of me—and I, of them. We no longer rejoiced even in our disagreements and apathy.
After studying at a local university, I took up a job at a shipping company, moved to the city and worked there for two years before I got the promotion. I was allotted an apartment in the government block of the dockyard. The tenants were workers and pensioners who worked at the dock. Sheltered away in the heart of the Indo-Victorian quarter, it was one of those old tenement blocks into which all marina seemed smelted: yellow Paithani over brown balconies, plangent voices, sparrows chirping, the smell of masala-soaked pomfrets and prawns frying. At night, one could hear the splashing of the ocean waves through the cracks of the wall.
On an arid night after coming back from work, as I walked up the stairs, I found Mrs Doshi—the building secretary—screaming at the old man from across her door. He stood in the stairway, overcome from his disorientation. His pyjamas had stains of curry.
“This isn’t your apartment,” she told him. He seemed dazed. She had to serenade him away from entering her house.
“This isn’t my apartment?” he asked.
With a quick reflex, Mrs Doshi bolt the door close and chartered to the outhouse. She had borrowed the extra key from the janitor. The old man stood by her apartment door while he waited. It seemed to me that, perhaps, this was a regular occurrence.
Mrs Doshi eventually helped him to his apartment, and I went along with them. He was coughing, trying to clean the phlegm that was stuck in his throat. There were rice bits stuck in his beard. He walked fast for someone his age. He had demure hands for someone with a body so large.
His apartment was large, facing the other side of the bay. “The port is quite busy today,” he said to me. “Did you sell any fish?” Perhaps his memory was erratic; I felt he addressed me in a way that he assumed we had met before.
Mrs Doshi stepped away to get his cane, which he had left outside her apartment.
I introduced myself, “Arya”. I told him that I worked in the shipping department. He nodded, took his glasses off, and kept them on the table by the window. He put his shirt and trousers in the cupboard and his shoes by the grandfathers’ clock with his tattered shawl over it. The clock looked antique with ebony chambers and the gold-rimmed frame. The shawl had tinges of red-pink polkas with maroon layers.
He put a pan on the stove. A burnt vessel with what seemed like tea was reeking. There was mould starting to grow over it. I watched him walk around the kitchen looking for something to cook.
“My wife cooked the best fish curry. She died four months ago”.
I would later learn from Mrs Doshi later that it had been three years.
The old man found the lentils in the corner shelf. I helped him fix the cooker. There was a knock on the door. Rhea, a junior executive, who lived across my apartment, brought his cane. Mrs Doshi had sent her with it.
He walked to the sink, the oyster cupped in his jittery palms and covered it with a soaked towel. A time would come when the oyster would die, on the day the old man left, sensing the undeniable silence in the house.
The following morning, Rhea and I offered to accompany him while he had his breakfast. He giggled. Pleased with my request, he sat on the couch. The ice in his coffee had thawed. He inquired about the commotion of the ships at the port.
The man kept talking—and, despite my wish to leave, I couldn’t help but continue to listen. He told me about his journey, of the day he came to this town with his newly wedded wife, Ela. She was twenty-three and he was twenty-five when they got married. His father-in-law had agreed because of the respectable government job. They moved here soon after their wedding.
“She buried herself in weaving blouses and gowns for herself and the neighbours. She liked watching the ships pass by. One day she asked me if I wanted a shawl, for it would get windy out at the port.”
The old man’s job was to record the waning and the waxing of the moon; calculate the lows and highs of the tides to inform the authorities at the port.
“I didn’t want to burden her, Arya. But she weaved me one anyway. I wore it everywhere I went.”
At about nine thirty, I got up to leave for work. I was over an hour late. In the lobby, he made it known that he wouldn’t mind if we dropped by at his house at any time of the day.
*
There were no annual sea festivals in my hometown, but my sisters and I would dress up in our saris and celebrate the sea goddess by singing a song of gratitude for her. We prayed for a plentiful catch. It was the only day of the year when father and I rejoiced together.
*
Rhea and I began to frequent his place. The old man would play bongos and build card houses with us. He was an expert at the card tricks. On the days when the debaucheries of the town jaded us, Rhea and I would watch classics with him. On alternate days we would drop by to check if his medication—for dementia and blood pressure—were being taken daily.
We would gorge on mangoes in the summer. We would sit in the kitchen slurping on the mango seeds. No one would say a word. We would watch the tides rising through the window. We would count the dead fish swept on the shore. The gills looked dull without the glimmer of the water.
The first month’s shipments success was celebrated with a mini feast at work. I realised I hadn’t been to the harbour myself since I had moved. That evening, I went to the port to fish. I bribed the local fisherman into lending me his boat. I caught a few crabs and a giant oyster.
I showed the oyster to the old man later that day. He liked the way it gleamed in the sunlight. He wanted to keep the oyster for himself, and I let him. He walked to the sink, the oyster cupped in his jittery palms and covered it with a soaked towel. A time would come when the oyster would die, on the day the old man left, sensing the undeniable silence in the house.
The old man would usually forget his boiling tea on the stove. Sometimes, he would mistake me for Rhea. He would throw away fresh food and would wear the same shirt for three days. I visited him often. He would sit by his window, listen to the radio and stare at the oyster for hours.
He would ask us every now and then, “Why hasn’t it birthed a pearl yet? I want to gift this one to Ela.”
While on an afternoon stroll one day, I saw him walking around the market. He was in his pyjamas with the tattered shawl flailing around his neck. He seemed disoriented. He strained his eyes to read the name of the buildings around him. Upon finding me in the crowd, a smile tiptoed on his face.
“I was waiting for Ela to come back. Sorry. I thought she had gone to the market.”
The Arabian Sea looked calm. The old man squeezed a worm onto the hook. When I look back, there are those memories from our past years that later seem like magic; finding baby eggs hidden in the algae, the first sensation of ice, the mummified fish in the alcohol jar on your niece’s table, the glimpse of a full moon on a stormy night.
He was fading away, one memory at a time.
*
On a stormy night, I heard a mellow cry coming from his room. I hoped Mrs Doshi hadn’t heard it. I found him sitting on the floor. His defecation was all over the living room floor. He had spoilt his pants. A rag sat nearby, smeared with his faeces. It seemed as if he had given up after he couldn’t mop it properly.
H looked down, teary-eyed.
“I couldn’t stop”.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It could happen to anyone. Such things happen…”
“Please, you don’t understand. I walked from my bed… and I, I just…”
I heated some water so he could take a bath and waited for him to clean himself up. I washed the floor and scented the living room. He wouldn’t look me in the eye.
*
I took hold of his fishing-rod and asked him if he wanted to go fishing with me.
The old man had to carry his walking stick. The path climbed upwards, with the water on one side and the garden moss wall on the other. There was ocean breeze blowing. Here, I saw another man by the ledge, who had been waiting by a boat. The old man called out to him and asked him to take us to the seaport. He introduced himself as Rao.
“Mr Shinde?” Rao asked, with a glint of recognition.
Upon my perplexed expression, Rao told me that the old man and he had spent time together at the port during their younger days. They would meet on weekends to play chess and occasionally partake in friendly fishing contests.
The Arabian Sea looked calm. The old man squeezed a worm onto the hook. When I look back, there are those memories from our past years that later seem like magic; finding baby eggs hidden in the algae, the first sensation of ice, the mummified fish in the alcohol jar on your niece’s table, the glimpse of a full moon on a stormy night.
We fished a tiny eel but did not catch any fish. The old man looked troubled.
“Ela would be disappointed in me.”
It was time for his evening dose, and the sun was about to set. “We could come again tomorrow?” I offered.
I had wanted to meet him before my early morning train. The candle had burned down, dripping uncentered wax around, leaving wax plops over the mahogany table. As the last candle burned away, the peaceful feeling left me.
“Yes? Please. Let us all come tomorrow. You, me and Ela. She could even teach you how to fish lobsters.”
*
Mrs Doshi told me that the Shinde’s—Ela and Ramchandra—moved into the quarters in 1986. “She was a lady with etiquette,” said Mrs Doshi. “Everyone got along with her. She would cook soup and make fried fish for everyone who visited her. Her husband would come home happily to her. Mind you; he would never stay out late. But who would, when she loved him so dearly?”
“They did not have children. They chose not to or could not have one, no one knows. And no one even asked them as the years went by. Then, three years ago, on a bright sunny day, she had a heart attack in her sleep. This is how good people die, Arya. She did not trouble anyone when she lived and did not when she died. She once weaved a blouse for my little boy. I still have it. I tell you; this is how good people die”.
That evening, I felt the incessant need to write to my mother.
This week has been pleasantly refreshing. I have been connecting with my colleagues at work. The old man I speak to has been experiencing the benefits of your recipe that we made him last week. I hope you are doing well. How is father? Maybe, you and he may want to come visit me. I would like for you to visit me. We could stay together. I could talk to the department head, to adjust for a suitable living arrangement…
I had an urge to inquire more, follow-up with questions about home. About father. But I refrained from doing so.
I knew that mother couldn’t come. If she left home now, there would be no return for her.
*
On my last day with them, I had waited for father to come home. I had wanted to meet him before my early morning train. The candle had burned down, dripping uncentered wax around, leaving wax plops over the mahogany table. As the last candle burned away, the peaceful feeling left me.
All this was a long time ago, when I was still a young girl, and everything seemed palpable and real. I woke up, it was early morning, and it was still dark outside. My mother had been preparing my breakfast.
“Get dressed and come down quickly. The train arrives in twenty,” she said. She had been wearing her blue nightgown and her hair was up in a bun. I watched her move, cutting the tomatoes and washing the vegetables. She turned around, half asleep and looked at me for a minute before she said, “You don't want to miss that train.”
*
At the grocery store I would flirt with handsome sailor boys. I would buy a ten-rupee box of cigarettes and a cheap bottle of rum. On some days, I would get them back to my apartment; and on other days they’d take me onto the ship. I would watch the ships and boats sail away further into the sea. The commotion at the market looked undisturbed from where I stood on the ship’s deck.
The window of my office was visible from this spot. I wondered if one could see the small statuette of the elephant god on the wall. Or the sea-coast map hanging behind my chair. Or the picture of my father and I, which sat on a small photo frame on the table, from an Annual Day event in my schooldays, long ago.
When I thought about the past, I thought about memory. I wondered if Mr Shinde would forget us, like shattered dolls collapsing through the broken chambers of his mind.
For the coastal monsoon carnival, he wore his white shirt and brown pants with the chenille shawl around his neck. It looked old, the ends loosening away, tattered, shades of broken orange threads intertwined with the blue threads, dusty and faded.
“She stitched this for me,” the old man gleamed when he put in on one morning.
It had turned into a brown shabby long cloth. Thread-bare, it would shred up and tear apart if washed. It looked like it would vaporise into the air.
*
During my first monsoon at the port town, the high tides would flood the streets. I bought myself gumboots and a raincoat. Umbrellas would tumble over by the wind. My days would go by in a blink of an eye.
I found him soaking wet in his apartment. I asked him if he was hungry. Rhea and I prepared a hot curry for him. He’d forgotten to carry an umbrella. Seasons didn’t exist for him anymore. I held his hand. He asked me who I was.
“Your neighbour,” I said.
“I forgot where I was when I woke up. I forgot my wife’s name and my child’s name.”
I wanted to ask him which child he was talking about. Was it a boy name or a girl name? Had they decided on a name if they were to have one? Instead, I asked, “Do you want me to stay here for a while?”
He did not answer.
I closed the door behind him. Could one die in their sleep without memories?
*
I was a young girl. Eleven-years-old. At the cusp of being introduced to the truth. It had been summer. Mother had been sleeping, and I had heard the door open. When I looked out the window, I saw father walk towards the outhouse, a little shed that we had built when I was a little girl down by the stream, in the dark. The absolute silence was deafening, discomforting. I watched his silhouette disappear. I had worn my slippers and had followed him.
The slushing noise of father's footsteps was menacing. I’d walked faster, wanting to catch up to him. I followed the sound. I had reached the outhouse. I had come here before, with mother in the daytime, to collect hay for our cattle and keep them in the smaller room, while the entire outhouse had been my magical fort. I used to come by to play with my friends when I was a kid. But now, the place looked haunting at night.
I had been curious to examine father's countenance at my surprised arrival. As I had approached the door, I saw a little girl by the window. Younger than I. She saw me as well. She waved when I met her gaze, and she smiled. I knew something wasn’t right. She disappeared behind the curtain.
“She stitched this for me,” the old man gleamed when he put in on one morning.
It had turned into a brown shabby long cloth. Thread-bare, it would shred up and tear apart if washed. It looked like it would vaporise into the air.
I decided to return.
In the morning, mother had lit the fire and had stuffed lumps of coal into it. “Can I go to play by the outhouse today?” I asked her.
“We’ve locked it, Arya. You know… the rats dig through”.
“I saw a little girl there, last night,” I said. Mother turned around to look at me. “I had followed father. I wanted to scare him.”
Mother continued with her mundane humdrum in the kitchen, without an answer. So I folded the truth in a box with no creases. His apathy to our known knowledge had made it easy. I had wanted mother to levitate away, but she had chosen her path. Like three dolls in a broken home, we had tangled up threads, and we’d accepted our fate.
*
Mrs Doshi stood by the building gate. She was looking for Mr Shinde.
At four, we got a call from the town hospital. Some local boys had found him at the steps of the sea fort. Why did he go there? I wondered. Did he get there by himself? They hadn’t found a boat.
When we visited him, we found out that the authorities found a distant relative, a nephew, who was present at the hospital. They had needed a family member to sign the papers. Someone to take him to his home town in the south.
The light in the hospital room was mellow. The dark under his eyes was purple and swollen. He looked bloated. The hospital gown seemed garish compared to his pale skin. The fingers and toes appeared pruney, traveling all the way to his neck.
“He got hypothermia last night,” said the doctor. “The locals found him naked.”
The nephew was welcoming. He talked to us and thoroughly inquired about his ongoing prescriptions.
The old man, meanwhile, kept looking around the room. The veins in his hands ran green, inflated like moss tentacles of the icy sea. His skin was sitting aloft. He smelled of seaweed and algae. His backbone protruded out; a skeletal curved hump. His dorsal skin looked rutted. He looked broken. Fibres ready to come apart. Bones ready to be picked apart. Likely to float into the sea and be caught as a fish by his wife.
“Take care of my kitten,” he said. Those were his only words to us. I waited in there a minute longer, just so he’d perhaps feel my presence. Look at me. Remember something.
The nephew took him back soon after.
A week later, the nephew came by to sign the lease. He cleaned the old man’s apartment and packed the valuables, furniture, and utensils. In time, he also sold the other items: the old radio, clock, newspapers, shawl, curtains, and old shoes to the recycling shop by the corner.
One day, I went out looking for the shop. It wasn’t in the place where it had been before. I walked into small alleys and headed into intersections. It seemed to have sailed away like a ghost ship. I sat on the pavement. I wanted to cry.
The more I gripped the line, the more it started to slip from my hand. There were multiple cuts on my palm. Blood. I wasn’t going to let it slip away from me. It looked at the cusp of its ocean life. Soon to perish away.
My gaze fell all around the main street. In the alley adjacent to the bus station, I saw the shop’s half-closed shutter. I asked the shopkeeper if Mrs Doshi or the nephew had come by to donate the old man’s belongings. They informed me that they had dumped all the items into the sea.
I rummaged through the cabinets at the shop, looking for the chenille shawl. I had wanted to buy him a new one from the city. I found nothing, except for his daybook—in which chronicled thirty-eight years of journaled sea weather, and the waning days of the moon.
That night, the moon was crescent and the monsoon’s last storm brewed on the horizon. The authorities found an unidentified traveller washed ashore. The news reporters were present by the port. I went to the coast, where Rao let me borrow his boat. I sailed towards the storm.
I branched over my rod on the bar. My heart galloped hallow with the rising waves. My head was spinning. I felt faint. A current knocked the boat. I rose to my feet. The wind was rising. It began to drizzle. It wasn’t the rain, however, but sweat that now fogged my eyesight. I felt a pull. The storm moved closer. Then, a stronger pull.
I saw it. A ray-fish. His dark shadow surpassed the boat. He came into the light and looked at me.
Dropping the line lower, I pulled the rod up and he jumped. His body shimmered under the pristine gleams of the moonlight.
The pivoting and weaving broke the support of the rod. The fish kept beating the wire. I gripped the line stronger. The more I gripped the line, the more it started to slip from my hand. There were multiple cuts on my palm. Blood. I wasn’t going to let it slip away from me. It looked at the cusp of its ocean life. Soon to perish away.
I pulled the wire harder.
And then the line broke. He had pulled onto the wire. I saw him swim away, disappearing into the depths.
*
I wondered if his room had always been spacious, though it looked brighter without his belongings. The red carpet and the pencil drawings made on the wall had been painted over. “It gets cold here at night”, Mrs Doshi said. She handed me the key and asked me to deliver it to the janitor. I looked around. The soot had crawled all over the lower wall in the kitchen. The wooden bar where he used to hang his clothes had rusted.
I went back into his bedroom and looked out of the window. I sat on the hard floor and listened. There was no sound except that of the sea waves. I could have moved into his apartment with the sanction of the department head. But the feeling of newly acquired serenity had left me. A limbo of untold feelings of long-lost paternal agony.
A new tenant moved into his apartment soon after.
*
I woke up from a dream that I couldn’t remember. I sat on the bed, clouded, searching in my memory for what I’d forgotten to do. All that loomed behind his door was a hologram of a kettle whistling, muffled screams, the memory of loneliness dressed in old-age, moist cotton balls and burnt sugar.
The days by the sea passed quickly. The shifting sand beneath by feet accumulated the forgotten titbits of familial love, and floated into the vast sea. The loop of being remembered and forgotten by in a never-ending oblivion was a tragedy, dressed as a farce. I threw away the picture of my father and I—the one from my schooldays. It was a satire, dressed as father and daughter.
On warm nights I would play bongos and build card houses. The card house is made of salty corners. The sort that very few would live in. It fosters orphaned and forgotten ghosts between its broken kindred walls.
I assembled the last two pieces of the card-house. There soars within me a belief that rainbow ends have gold coins and tooth-fairies visit people at night. It held the pallet of life which is etched across, splashed with regrets, crisscrossed with impossible colours that eventually fade away, before we even paint them on our memory. I looked at the Arabian Sea and I see fleeting images, waning away like the moon, into the darkness of the night.
***
Aishwarya Khale has studied Literature at Exeter College - University of Oxford and completed her Masters in Postcolonial writing from the University of Mumbai. Her spoken word performances (open mic) have been published with Kommune India and Indie Habitat. She has had her poetry and fiction published in Mississippi magazine, Lipi magazine, Tripoto India, Barnes and Nobel digital press, The Elpis Pages, Muse India, Mausoleum Press, and more. You can find her on Instagram: @aishwaryakhale and Twitter: @aishwarya_khale.
