That Day - the Enormity of the Loss - Book Report/Review Example

?That Day The letter fluttered out of my hand and fell to the floor. I passed a hand over my brow and sank slowly to the threadbare sofa. ‘Gosh, I need a cigarette’, I heard my voice coming from far away. Sheila looked at me strangely, her eyes a question mark. ‘What’s the matter, Roy? Are you OK?’ I reached out to the pack on the window sill, turning towards her. Sheila was a dear friend and I felt I owed her an explanation. ‘You know, Sheila’, I felt my voice catch in my throat; ‘I grew up being told that what goes around comes around. My mother used to say it, my teacher at school said it, but nothing in my life bore this out’, I paused to check if she was with me. She was listening intently, leaning forward a little. ‘Go on, Roy, it’s something I’ve always believed in…’ ‘Then you have got to hear this’, I cut in and settled back heavily as the sofa springs creaked in protest. My eyes glazed over to that day six years back. *** The rain had been falling in a steady torrent through the night. Whether it was the thunder that had raged night-long or the steady thumping of my adrenalin, I had been able to sleep barely a wink. My head pounded with thoughts of what I would say at the meeting: ‘Yes sir, I am a qualified chef….. been to the best catering school in the country…. I have the training and the experience….. have been saving up for this break….. give it to me…..give it to me….. oh, give it to me…’ The words raced through my mind, sometimes reaching my lips, sometimes dying away as new thoughts leapt up. Would they think me good enough to make the investment? What if I fumbled? Was I stepping too much out of a comfort zone? What if I lost the initial deposit, my life’s treasure, if I didn’t bag the deal? At this, I jerked out of bed and felt the sweat trickle down the back of my T-shirt. I walked over to the tiny kitchenette and switched on the light. As warm light flooded my little nest, my nerves steadied and I glanced at my reflection in the cut-glass framed mirror in the passage. Bright eyes, a determined mouth and a springy shock of dark hair stared back at me. My teacher’s words came back, ‘Roy, you are the best I ever saw. You are not just a great chef, you have in it you to be an entrepreneur…. Go for it my boy’. I had gone to see Mr. Dias when I saw the ad in the newspaper. 50,000 dollars deposit, catering school background, proven expertise, a go-getting spirit and the drive to set up and manage an international catering franchise in Mumbai. The company, Great Grub, was an international chain looking for a young person with the above qualifications to set up their first venture in India. Besides the 50,000 dollars that I had to put up to enter the fray, they would take pick up the tab on the entire rigmarole – real estate, marketing, staffing, kitchen operations, everything. Woo hoo, it was a dream come true. Tailor-made, answer to all my prayers, the one thing I needed to jumpstart my career to the big league. As I put water to boil for that cup of coffee I so needed, I remembered the wrench I had felt those two months back when I had to finally dig into the bank deposit that my mother had begun the day I was born. ‘When you need it for your studies or something big, it will be there for you’, she would say. In those carefree growing-up years those words had meant little and the first time the existence of that tidy sum registered was when her lawyer handed me the papers on my eighteenth birthday, a year after she was gone. As I sipped my coffee pensively, I recalled how much she had wanted me to make it big, how she had stood by me like a rock when I wanted to follow my heart to catering school, how she had rebuffed all those who had scorned my choice of career as too ‘girly’. ‘This one is going to be for you, mom’, I whispered. The day began to break in, as it normally did – a little sliver of light crept in from the east window, picking out first the chintz covered sofa and then the antique center table in its path. I was proud of this little apartment. When mom had been around, it always smelt of fresh flowers.. She had decorated it in pastel shades, keeping a few dramatic touches like the antique table, the cut glass mirror and the silver candle-stands on the console. My first paycheck had contributed to upgrading the kitchenette to a steel and granite marvel and ever so often the gourmet aromas from here would be blasted out by the electric chimney to mingle with the earthy smells outside. A quick glance at the clock showed me it was already 6 a.m. and the meeting was set for 7 a.m. I reached out for the smart pinstripe I had laid out on the dresser the night before and dashed to the bath. As I knotted the blue tie, my lucky talisman from my first successful interview, I liked what the panel would see – a dapper, twenty-four year old, confident, bright and rearing to go. I picked up my portfolio containing the precious experience certificates, my catering school testimonials, a copy of the project proposal that I had submitted with the deposit earlier on and a page full of recommendations from customers and fans who had dined at the outlets I had cooked at or managed. As I stepped out of the front door, I turned for one last glimpse at the photograph on the console; the loved face smiled encouragement as always. The street below was almost deserted. It was still too early for the hubbub to begin and I looked around frantically for a taxi, gingerly stepping around the muddy puddles that seemed to be everywhere. I could have taken the red public bus, but 7 a.m. was too tight to take a chance. They had said that mine was the last of the meetings set with four of the best candidates and they would be taking the flight out after that. I was almost certain to get that prized confirmatory call in the next few days. Just then I spotted and hailed a black and yellow Mumbai cab. ‘Cuffe Parade’, I sang, as I sprang in. The city whizzed past as the taxi cut through nearly empty streets. It was raining again and the roads stretched ahead like a sheet of water. I struggled to spot the office building I was to reach through the now frosted window panes. I barely managed to catch the number plate through the scaffolding that surrounded it. ‘Stop! Right here!’ I yelled excitedly over the sound of the incessant rain and the cab swerved sharply at my command. I opened the door to jump out onto the pavement and screamed at the sight there. Right where my foot had landed was a middle-aged man, flat on his back and writhing in pain. He had obviously slipped on the wet street. But what was worse, a large cement block from the nearby construction had broken through the scaffolding and was crushing down his right leg. My insides lurched at his howls of pain as I slowly stepped out of the taxi. I bent down in an attempt to lift him up, looking around for help. There was not a soul in sight at that rain drenched early hour. My eyes took in the mangled leg and the bile rose to my throat. Another sight from a lifetime ago swam before me – the wrecks of the dastardly train accident that had claimed my beloved mom, the blood, the gore and the wailing. I gestured to the taxi driver to come around and help me. I heard him muttering under his breath, ‘What the ….’, even as I felt the rain soak through my pinstripe shirt and squelch the tie knot. ‘Oh God, why now? Why me?’ I wailed inwardly. For a moment the eyes in the head I cradled in my arm fluttered open and the beseeching look tore through me. I groaned audibly as I saw the hands of my watch make it to the hour. Yet, how could I just leave him there? The taxi driver was holding up his legs now and motioned me to place him in the backseat. I slipped into the front and cast a final desperate look at the building that had housed the opening to my dream. The taxi swung out toward the nearest hospital. *** The sea was rough. I sat on the embankment, gazing into the stretching nothingness. This was what I had done every day for the last year and this is what my life had become. Nothing. That one word summed up where the dreams, the excitement, the investment had landed. Mr. Dias had drawn me into teaching at the institute and day after day after day I dragged myself out of the apartment, walked myself from class rooms to kitchen labs and saw before me a blur of eager young faces to whom I could not put names. I kept at the job just because I had bills to pay and needed food on my plate. The dreary routine seemed to comfort my ravaged psyche somewhat and was easier to slip into than the rush and challenge of my former restaurant life. Every evening, I stopped by at this embankment and sat staring at the grayness before me, unheeding of the evening exuberance behind me. Every evening I drank myself to sleep. I trudged back home, the desolation sinking deeper in the midst of the festivity around me. Little fairy lights were beginning to sparkle all around. Today was Christmas and sounds of merriment tinkled from neighborhood households. I walked up the dark, chipped stairs and turned the key in the lock. As I bent to drop my papers on the desk, I noticed a corner of the visiting card the doctors had retrieved from HIS clothing that day. It had been lying there the last four hundred and two days. I yanked it out, and the sheer force of my bitterness propelled me to call the number. I had barely struggled to introduce myself, when the fatherly voice at the other end burst out excitedly, ‘Dear boy, thank you for finally calling… I didn’t know how to reach you…. You just left after leaving me in good hands…. I owe you my life… you know, I lost the use of my leg and I can no more go for my morning walk… every day of my life I prayed and that day God appeared before me….. you appeared and saved my life, how can I thank you…’ I hung up; his warmth seemed to mock my hollow darkness, the angry words left unsaid yet again. *** That was five years ago, six years since THAT day. I handed over the letter to Sheila. She gasped, ‘Oh, Roy, this is divine retribution’. I nodded quietly and stretched out my hand to take it back. Crisp, handmade paper with gold letterhead. ‘I owe you a debt. I can never repay the gift of life you gave me, but please accept this as a small token of my eternal gratitude. I got your address from the hospital, but have not tried to contact you because I felt you did not want to be in touch for some reason. I do hope you will accept this. Please forgive me if I have hurt you in any way.’ Enclosed was a check for 500,000 dollars. *** The address was tony Malabar Hill. I skipped up the few stairs, my heart beating fast. Today Sheila struggled to keep pace. A woman in her thirties stepped out. A delighted smile lit up her face as I introduced myself. She ushered me in and before I could ask for him, she began, ‘I am his daughter. We all know of you. It was his last wish that the check be sent to you. Every day of his life he spoke about you…. But over the last few years he just lost the will to live….’ Her words swirled around me, as I sank down, wretched sobs racking my body. My body doubled up as it gave expression to the frustration, the anger, the bitterness I had borne all these years. Somehow, the enormity of this loss was greater than all others. ************************************************************************************** Source: Mumbai: www.lonelyplanet.com/india/mumbai-bombay Read More