Mostly Thoughtless

The dry grass crackled underfoot as he walked down the driveway of his mansion. It was set farther up than the rest of the houses in that hill-station. Understandably too. He owned half the hill. The tea estates stretching away till as far as his eye could see were all his, as were all those tiny dots which would move around picking out the leaves and dropping them nonchalantly into the bags on their back once the sun came out. All his. He felt extremely satisfied at this, that he had achieved something. Not pride. Or joy. Or greatness. Just satisfaction. I've done my job. Like a painter would feel, stepping back to survey his masterpiece.

He had wanted the driveway swept yesterday. It was getting very difficult to find good help these days. They were all becoming lazy. Or maybe it was because it was 4 A.M on a winter morning in the hills, and that he was the only lunatic to get up at such an hour and venture into the biting cold. They'll probably do it later. They'd better. He hadn't achieved what he had by allowing room for complacency.

He had a single shawl around him. The cold demanded two layers of sweaters and a shawl over that, but he had only a single shawl. He was a native. He didn't have to be afraid of the cold. The cold was his friend. He had been brought up with it, brought down by it, thrilled by it, chilled by it... and now, he hoped, killed by it.

He walked down from his house to the old burial ground. It was about 2 kms away. That was where she was buried. They had had no children in the first ten years of their marriage. No one knew why. And then God blessed them with a pretty, little baby girl... and took the mother away. It was as if he was destined to have only one woman in his life at a time. He had left the baby at the mansion and then come down to these grounds to bury her. And after everyone had left, he had cried. He had cried like he had never cried before, he had cried like he would die because he was not breathing in at all, he had cried like his face would get eroded by the tears streaming down. And then he stopped crying. Forever.

He stood by where she was buried. The cold was beginning to make its presence felt. His hands had gone numb, he could feel his body starting to tremble to keep itself warm. And yet, he stood there, unmoving. It is done, dear. I've driven myself like there was no tomorrow. Our child has everything she'll ever need. She has her nanny, she has the best tutor for miles around, she has wonderful friends and their parents who love her as their own. She turns 18 today and is officially capable of taking care of herself. Don't you think it's time I joined you?

The cold peirced through his body, sending his spine shivering into convulsions. His breath tightened as the cold pressed his chest in. He thought of letting the shawl go... quicken the process. A gust of wind blew across his face... and he smelt something. He knew that smell, he knew it from 28 years ago. He could still smell it on her neck, her favourite talcum powder, the only cosmetic she used. The wind blew again, and he instinctively drew his shawl closer. He immediately felt warmer, warmer than what a mere shawl could offer against that wind. The warmth spread through his body. He was brething freely, normally. He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something. Then he turned and started walking back to his Mansion, drawing the shawl closer to him all the time.

As the first dry leaf crackled on the driveway, he saw a tall, slim figure react to the sound at the other end of the driveway. He watched her as she sprinted down the drive, making enough noise to wake up an army. She flew into his arms as he barely managed to get out "Happy Birthday, Dear", before she squeezed his breath out of him with a tight embrace. Really, she must realize she's grown now, I can't hold her weight so easily. She let him go and looked inquiringly at him. Where had he been? He looked into her eyes and nodded. They stayed silent for a while, then she took his hand and led him back into the house.

The dry leaves crackled underfoot as they walked back into the house. He remembered the last gust of wind that had blown at the burial ground, the one that had caused him to draw his shawl closer. He remembered her smell, and remembered her voice, as if she had been right there, telling him. She can have everything, but she needs a father. He squeezed his daughter's arm and drew her closer as they climbed up the steps into the Mansion.