The Tribute

I have a black umbrella with me. I have some hazy memories of the place and the day I bought it. It was a shop located inside the Old Capitol Mall in Iowa City. It was raining quite heavily, and I did not have an umbrella when I came to the US as a student. After the torrential downpour, I bought it in the evening. It was $11 or so. It has been over a decade, and I still have that umbrella. I carried it daily in my bag when I went to college because we never know when it might rain. Then, I moved to Seattle, where I again carried forward the tradition. (Though people in Seattle do not carry umbrellas as they are used to the rain.) I took the umbrella with me to Luxembourg. When I came back, I brought it back with me. It has always been there in my work bag. It has got torn, with tiny holes in it. The wires are also coming out. It is time for it to go away. I have purchased a new one. Life is strange. We form bonds with inanimate objects. Even a small thing becomes attached to you. 

Last week, my uncle—my father's elder brother—called me. I never get a call from him. In fact, I don't get a call from anyone except for my mother, who calls me regularly. My uncle is now a bit old, in his late 70s. My father lost his father soon after being born. Leaving everything in Pakistan during the Partition and starting all over again, my uncle has raised all his brothers and sisters. When I asked him about his health, he said, "Panchchi ab udne vala hai." The bird is about to fly. Life has become hard with recurring health issues, and he felt maybe the time to go away is coming soon. It is time for him to go away.

I was reminded of the story called The Tribute, which was part of the Class 10th English Literature course. It was about Babuli, who was called to his village for a family dispute as their ancestral property was to be divided. Babuli was raised by his elder brother, who was like a father figure. His elder brother had sacrificed a lot for his own brothers. By the end of the story, Babuli decides to give his share of the property to his brother as a tribute. I reread the story, and I was moved by it. I can understand the emotions of the story so much better now. It is like one of Jhumpa Lahiri's beautiful stories. These days, I keep thinking of memories from childhood. Random memories. The funny thing is that I completed ten years at my workplace and don't remember much. It feels like I am emotionally stuck, but I still remember the ten years from childhood. I get nightmarish dreams of failing the exams or forgetting the admit card for board exams. That is why they say childhood will lay the foundation of your adulthood. You know, they said in Taare Zameen Par that every child is special. But in adulthood, only a few children remain special. The rest of us lose that child-like innocence. I wish I could get that spark back and become less cynical.