The Old Man and the City

I am a college student trying to make sense of life in the big city. The whole place is a big, beautiful mess and getting around is one of the worst and best parts of my daily life. I have been here sometime now and still I manage to get lost every once in a while. And it is during these times that I have had the most fun ever in my life. Bumping into strange alleys with exotic shops and houses, meeting new people and long-lost friends and getting to know about life first-hand from the street and its noises directly.

It was during one of these rambles that I met Uncle P. I did not recognize him at first; he looked so old and decrepit and I had never seen that miserable look in his face - he was always smiling and happy and had a twinkle in his eye in the old times when I was still just a kid. He would tell us stories, all beautiful, and recite poems too and do all kinds of fun and crazy things. I and my cousins and all our friends just used to love Uncle P and waited for him eagerly at the doorstep every summer morning as he came down the long country lane from his cottage. No one ever knew who he was or what he did, not even his name, but every summer he would rent the cottage and he would spend everyday with us, fishing, swimming, biking, apple-picking and other stuff.

But now he seemed very tired and it looked like he was carrying a heavy burden. I started talking to him and told him about all the wonderful days he had given me. I had come to college to become intelligent and wise like him and I told him I wanted to be a writer too and write the kind of stories and poems that he had written all those days ago. He listened patiently and after a long time, smiled a little and took me by hand to a grimy window. "Listen, kid. I dont know who you are any more. But that dump is where I live now. This is my sooty, grimy life and this is all I have got. When I was younger, I had a muse and I could tell stories and write poetry. Then, one day, the muse left me and I felt sad. So I wrote more and harder and furiously, seeking sublimation. I thought I will get over all my sorrows that way. But now I am older and know I will never be any less sadder or write anything worth reading any more. I am happy you found what I wrote good and I am happy there is someone in this world who remembers me when I was not like this. But the truth is I am just done and I dont want anything any more. You take care of yourself and be happy. Never try to fall into sorrow and break yourself. Now get going and forget I ever was," he said.

I was pained a bit and sad and tried to talk him into writing something for me. But he just waved the idea away. When I said, "Maybe I will come tomorrow and see if you feel better and will write something," he just replied, "Kid, maybe you will find me better tomorrow but just hope I wont be here tomorrow. That is all I want now - that are no more tomorrows for me. I find today too difficult already." And with that he walked past me into his sad room and shut the door. And I knew he had thanked me already.