The village is small, smaller still are the nineteen houses of the village. The old man lives with his old woman in the sixteenth house from the blue lake in the east corner of this village. The blue lake in the east corner of the village has fishes of nineteen different colours. Every summer morning the old man goes to blue lake and brings home sixteen fishes for his old woman.
Time dissolves slowly when one has little to think but it runs a little fast when one is old. They would get up in the morning the old man and his old woman, he would make coffee, she would light a fire, they would sit near the window , he would read the newspaper and she would wait for their children to call.
I went to visit them in the grey month of winter. They would wake me up early, make me coffee, take me to the fields and teach me fishing. We would laugh, they would talk but not about their hay days or about life. They would not give me any lessons in wisdom instead the old man would take my hand and while we walked on the brown road under an umbrella, he would ask me to listen to the sound of the rain.
The old woman would make my hair while we sat in the sun under the big leafed tree and she would not talk about her lovers past or her children or tell me how she met her old man, no. She would instead sing. Her song was not about a broken heart or a sullen dream nor did she sing of life and its vagaries but her song was one that of happiness, an ebullient verve to cherish the passing of time.
In the night we lay in the grass looking at the stars. They would hold hands and I would play my guitar. I would think of my city but I never spoke of its polluted skies. I knew they had lived for sixteen years in the city of star light and dreams and neither did they speak of it or its polluted skies. They never spoke of the fallen human spirit in those concrete jungles of fame. Instead they guided me through the luminous constellations and taught me on the stars to put a name.
They did not tell me to fall in love or to follow my dreams or to burn with my passions.
Speak to me, the old man sang. Laugh with me, the old woman smiled. Just breathe, they said.
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You can find more of such stories in my book 27 Broken Footprints.
This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.