Glimpse of the Morning

What was your favorite subject in school?

Dinner time was over and Mrs Baliga along with her nieces Maya and Purna sat in a room softly lit by the warm yellow light of the lamp.



Purna sat playing her violin, the fingers of her left hand moved over the fingerboard of the violin while her other hand moved the bow which was in contact with the strings. Maya and Purna sat in peace listening to the music being played. 



Maya and Purna were cousins, they were in higher classes of their school lives. They had come to visit their aunt Mrs Baliga on vacation. Mrs Baliga had lost her husband to an unfortunate accident the previous year, she had no children and was living alone by her own choice despite her relatives offering her to stay with them.



Purna’s playing came to an end and Mrs Baliga sat forward with a smile and said, “That was so beautifully played, you have really honed your talent.”



Purna smiled back as she kept the violin back into its case.



Mrs Baliga looked at Maya whose eyes had begun to be overtaken by sleep.



“Let’s head to our beds,” Mrs Baliga said and the three of them got up.



Maya headed toward the balcony to close its open door and just as she was closing it, Maya thought she saw someone.



Mrs Baliga’s apartment was on the top floor of the apartment building. The building was part of an apartment complex which consisted of five such buildings. There was a park in the middle with two buildings adjacent to each other on each of the park’s longer sides and one building stood at the end of one of the shorter ones.



The balcony which opened out to the service lane below faced the balcony of the apartment of similar arrangement in the front. Although not very near to each other, if one added a moderate level of volume to their voice they could engage in a form of verbal communication.



Maya closed her eyes for a few seconds and opened them again, there was indeed a man sitting there, the light of his balcony was not lit and thus most of his upper body including his face was not clearly visible however one of his arms could be partially seen through the light of the moon.



‘What is he doing sitting on the balcony so late at night?’ thought Maya as she closed the door.



The next morning when Maya opened the door to the balcony, she saw him clearly this time. An old man sitting wearing a red and grey sweater; his hair, the few of them now left, were white, his eyebrows were partially grey;  on his eyes were brown rimmed spectacles which had moved more towards the broader part of the nose. He sat sideways today to allow sunlight to reach the newspaper he was reading.



The old man stopped for a moment and extended his hand to pick something, it was a cup and by the size it probably contained tea and when he was about to take a sip, he noticed Maya observing him. 



The old man smiled and it was a beautiful and genuine smile, the one that comes to the face when you see children.



“That is Mr Dehlavi,” said Mrs Baliga as she stood behind Maya. Mrs Baliga waved to Mr Dehlavi and he waved back.



“How is the tea today?” Mrs Baliga asked Mr Dehlavi in a loud tone of voice. Mr Delhavi lived with his son’s family all of whom left in the morning to the places where their purpose was fulfilled. Mr Delhavi often complained how bad his daughter in law is at preparing tea.



“Oh, I have had worse, but in weather this cold, its warmth is the only thing I am concerned with,” Mr Dehlavi replied in a similarly loud tone, and then he asked, “who is the beautiful young girl?”



“This is Maya, my niece; she has come with her cousin Purna for a few days”



“Was she the one playing the violin yesterday? It was well played; I sat here listening”



“No, it was the other one,” Mrs Baliga replied and then she kept her hand on Maya’s shoulder and spoke to Mr Dehlavi, “this one writes poetry.”



“Oh really!” responded Mr Dehlavi in an interested tone, “How about you write one for me, something about an old man sitting on the balcony on a winter morning.”



Maya smiled and genuinely considered the suggestion.



Later Maya sat with her cousin and her aunt on the breakfast table. The table was decorated with different food items. Maya told Purna about her brief exchange with Mr Dehlavi and then she became engaged in her own thoughts and asked Mrs Baliga, “What was Mr Dehlavi’s profession?”



Mrs Baliga smiled, “Why don’t you both visit him and find out, I will give him a call”



At 11:30 am, Maya and Purna made their way to Mr Dehlavi’s house, they went down using the elevator, and then when they reached the adjacent building they went up once again.



“The worst part about the top floor is having to wait for the elevator, sometimes it’s more than what your patience can bear,” Mr Dehlavi said as the girls sat in the drawing room of the apartment, on the table in front was a plate of cookies and two glasses of water.



“So, Mrs Baliga said you were interested in what I did as my profession,” said Mr Dehlavi and got up, “why don’t you two follow me.”



Maya and Purna followed Mr Dehlavi into a room and even before lights were turned on, Maya could smell it and said, “books”



The lights glowed to show that there indeed were books in there, a lot of books, arranged on old wooden shelves on the two adjoining walls. There were some books on the old study table with a metal frame and wooden top, some were on the chair which could be scarcely seen apart from the metallic frame that supported it. There were some books on the floor as well.



“This is my chest of treasures,” said Mr Dehlavi, and then he turned to the two girls, “I taught English at the university” and then his eyes focussed upon Maya, “You may have not written that poem yet, but I wrote one about a small girl whom I saw across from my balcony.”



Mr Dehlavi took out a folded page from a diary and handed it to Maya knowing she shared a similar kind of love for his subject of profession, little did he know that the paper with poetry would remain much after Maya herself would, framed, on the wall of Maya’s library which was maintained by one of her nephews.

Written by Anuran Chatterji

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