A broken pane and the unspoken bond (972 words)

 

As a young boy, I played cricket in our colony several decades back. There was not much vacant space except a patch in the middle of the colony. Three sticks of different heights served as stumps, with a brick at the other end as the fourth stump. Half a dozen boys of varying ages formed our team. Discarded tennis balls were donated by the dad of one of the boys. Two hours in the evenings, until the shadows lengthened, were sheer thrill and joy for us.

While the inevitable noise and shouting during the play, were not objected to by the elders,  one old gentleman, Bhaskar Rao, living adjacent to the playing area, did not relish the game being played there. He often came out and remonstrated with us, saying, “You are all shouting too much and are a daily nuisance. This is not a playground. Why don’t you go play in the corporation ground in the adjacent street?”

We would plead with him, “Uncle, we will not shout or make noise. Please allow us to play here as older boys are playing in the corporation ground and do not allow us to enter there.”

“I don’t wish to hear all your excuses. I am not going to allow you fellows to play here. I will tell the Secretary of the Association in writing, though I know his son Mukesh is also one of your gang,” he said. Nevertheless, he never wrote or spoke to the secretary, and we continued playing merrily.

One day, Mukesh had brought his cousin, an older boy. A tall and strong fellow, he hit a ball into the window of Bhaskar Rao’s flat. Luckily, the ball hit the wooden frame, and the glass was not broken. The old man rushed out of the flat to survey whether any damage had been done to the window.

I said, “Uncle, nothing has happened. It just hit the frame. We will be careful.”

Without uttering a word, he took the ball that was lying near him and went inside. All our pleas for the ball fell on deaf ears. When he did not open the door, I remember pressing the bell at regular intervals, sometimes nonstop for a long duration. He came out seething in anger and exploded, “You rascal, how dare you press the bell like this continuously. I will complain to your father in the evening. I have no intention of returning the ball.” He slammed the door and never opened it despite our shouting.

The day’s play had to stop as there was no spare ball. As we dispersed, I took a small stone and hit the window pane directly, breaking the glass. I ran away before he came out.

I was scared that the old man would catch me the next day. But surprisingly, we found the ball lying on the ground, and he never came out to make noise about the windowpane. It pricked my heart with guilt when he remained silent about the broken glass whenever I crossed him in the colony. I could not return his smile and instead hung my head in shame. His stony silence about the incident made me all the more uncomfortable.

When I told my mom about his stopping the play one day and how I broke the glass in anger, she said that Rao had lost his only son of my age some years ago while playing cricket. When he was fielding at close quarters, it appeared the ball hit him on his head near the brow, and the poor boy died the same night.

My mom felt that he was so paranoid about youngsters playing cricket  and it stemmed basically from the fear of likely injury I could not sleep that night. I had saved about two hundred rupees from the gifts for my birthday.

The first thing in the morning I did was to go to his house and fall at his feet with profuse apologies. He lifted me and said with a smile, “Raju, why are you prostrating? Any examination today or birthday for you?” He saw me crying and asked, hugging me, “What happened? Why are you crying?”

In sobbing tone, I remember saying, “Uncle, you must pardon me. I was the wretch who broke the window that day in anger when you did not return the ball. Here is two hundred rupees that I had saved that would cover the cost of putting a new glass. Please accept it. I never knew then why you did not like us playing cricket till Mom told me last evening. Until you forgive me, I cannot look straight into your eyes.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, and came back with a new cricket bat. “This was bought by my son a week before he had the tragic accident. I am not against cricket when played with protective gears. Take this bat; I gift it to you as it can be put to better use than being an article of memory. Here is the money you gave me. I knew you had broken it. But I have left the door deliberately unrepaired as it would make you all play carefully. You can use the money to buy some protective gears like a helmet, pads, gloves, and abdomen guards. If you need some more money, I am ready to pay.”

Even after several decades, I fondly remember his kindly face that taught me a lesson on concern for others and forgiveness. As I look back now, I realize that his silent pain, hidden behind his stern exterior, was a testament to his love for his lost son. As he embraced me that morning with forgiveness and love, he mended not only a broken window but also healed a part of his heart.