The story of an old man

 

Tau Bhoopan has finished his innings here on earth but the anecdotes he sired still fetch little nuggets of memories from the deep abyss of the past. He had a penchant and flare for flirting with norms. He was a certified flirtatious character; always water-mouthed for the opposite gender till late in his old age. So most of his stories deal with his disconcerting overtures to pacify and gratify the undying worms of desire in him. The people seem forgiving and laugh about it.

He indeed was a character. He once came across an English sahib in the privacy of acacia forest and finding him alone pounced upon him like a local panther trying to redeem the native pride. Both of them were strong for each other and huffing and puffing, unable to outdo the other, fell into a well. After a few minutes of water slinging they realized the importance of truce to save their lives. Then both of them yelled, joined the forces of vocal cords to draw someone’s attention. The help won’t arrive for a few hours and meantime they copiously consumed their quota of swearing, oath taking and cuss words in their respective languages. Once they were fished out, they had antipodal reception. Bhoopan was jailed for a few months and the Englishman was treated like a brave prince.

India then became independent and Bhoopan would always claim that he had fought for the country’s liberation from the foreign rule. In a free India, once Bhoopan had opened a tea stall by the road outside the village. He would get up at four in the morning, start fire in the hearth, set the kettle sizzling as a welcome sign for his customers. But he always felt that the number of customers never did justice to his seriousness about the job. He got itchy over the months and when a military convoy passed the road his check dam broke. He fell in front of the officer’s jeep and started crying profusely. The officer thought he was the most wronged person in the area. He asked him about his grievance. A profusely weeping Bhoopan told him about his plight, how the villagers were deliberately ignoring him, as he thought, to make him go penniless. ‘Please point this cannon towards the village once, please, you don’t have to fire, just the cannon mouth towards them will teach them a lesson. They are cowards, they will pee in their pants,’ he pleaded.

In his sixties he was struggling as a sugarcane juice maker. A woman ordered a glass of juice. He made it and while he was gloating over her figure a fly fell into the glass. ‘See, you have put a fly in the glass,’ she angrily complained. ‘Of course, I cannot put an elephant in the glass,’ he countered from his side. She threw away the glass which broke and paid him for the juice. ‘But what about the fly and the broken grass?  Pay for them also. Those were costly items,’ he hollered.

His mischief got hugely manifested in mind, as his body grew old and the basic instinct seeped into his old neurons from the body tissues. A young peasant woman was showing her buffalo, which had been giving mating calls at night, to a bull for calving and fresh milk in the family. It was a tiny grove of trees. Her farmer husband was not at home and fearing a missed chance at getting the buffalo seeded, she herself took charge of the situation. It would have been embarrassing in the presence of someone but since there wasn’t anyone around she tried her best to get the mating done. She pacified the buffalo into a position and whistled to inspire the bull. She had after all seen the process with stealthy eyes as the menfolk managed it. This bull was not that experienced in the art. It was willing, was in the mood and repeatedly getting on but missed the mark. She had seen how nonchalantly the menfolk would help the faltering bull by holding the pizzle and putting it into the slot. But it was a big block in her female mind, conditioned in the chains of patriarchy, to get this particular thing done. She seemed in two minds. She blushed even though there was nobody around. She moved her hand with determination but seemed lacking the courage to do it as if she was scared of it. ‘Daughter, why worry? It looks red and hot but it isn’t so. It won’t burn your hands,’ Bhoopan the expert spoke from behind a tree trunk. He was considerably old by this time and had expertly followed the trio, anticipating some fun that would tickle his lusty bone.

Once, this time older than before, he was urinating by a path. At a distance some peasant women stopped waiting for him to get done. ‘Daughters, don’t worry. You can safely pass. That which you are afraid of is firmly held by its neck,’  he assured them.

As he grew still older he would have lots of fights with his daughters-in-law, sons and grandsons. And people would try to remind him that an old man shouldn’t quarrel and fight with his family members. ‘If not the family, with whom should I fight then? Russia and America? Sorry I’m not capable of that anymore,’ he would say.