As my wife and I sat on the
flowerbed outside our building yesterday evening, a woman passed by,
commenting, "You two remind me of my parents".
She didn't stop. Not even slowed
down.
"Do you know her?" I whispered,
watching the middle-aged woman move past in her hasty stride.
"No! Perhaps she lives in our
building." My wife replied.
I, too, didn't know the woman. Why,
then, she passed a comment but didn't stop for our reaction? She definitely
didn't want to strike a conversation with us. She appeared to be from the Philippines,
and we being Indians, would have certainly not resembled her parents. Her tone
was surely not a mocking one, she rather appeared to be melancholic.
And then it struck me. She was
missing her parents, who perhaps lived thousands of miles away from her. The
words had slipped out of her mouth involuntarily, leaving her with no choice
but to quickly walk away in embarrassment. She had perhaps reached the stage
when one starts noticing in everyone a glimpse of the person ones misses terribly.
Sometimes it is the posture, sometimes it is the voice, sometimes it is a
particular mannerism, and sometimes it is something that cannot even be
pinpointed. One starts finding an endearing shadow, an endearing fragrance even
in complete strangers. And when the cruel reality affirms its ugly presence,
little option is left other than to feel embarrassed and make a hasty retreat.
She had seen her parents in us,
complete strangers.
I wonder what makes us see our
parents in strangers, but become strangers to our own parents? Why does the
communication collapse to such an extent that even the basic gestures of
greetings and appreciation require an effort to make? What makes us live
thousands of miles apart under the same roof? What prevents us from accepting
our parents as normal human beings – why do we expect them to confine
themselves to play the roles of distinguished baby sitters, butlers, home
managers, cooks, demigods, etc?
Did the woman treat her parents in
a similar manner, and was repenting now?
I will never know. I don't know
her. And even if she crosses my path again, I doubt she will stop by to have a
word with me.
She and her parents will remain a
mystery.
संदेश
