Books by lalit navani

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE

Part 1

Subroto Banerjee, as usual was taking a short nap after drinking his morning tea. A habit developed slowly after his retirement. The decades old recliner chair swayed gently with his rhythmic breathing.

Suddenly, the buzzer rang somewhere in the apartment waking him up from his slumber. He heard his wife’s footsteps as she moved towards the door.

“Milk adulteration is a crime. Stop it or else I will complain to the authorities.”

Subroto smiled. His wife said the same thing whenever the milkman came home to collect his dues.

“Memsaab, I swear on God, I don’t …,” the milkman’s voice echoed inside his room.

“Don’t you dare take God’s name? Just provide us pure milk for which we pay you so much.”

Subroto lifted himself up against the chair when he heard the door close. He folded the newspaper which rested on his chest and pushed it across the table. He took a deep breath, his eyes swept across the room.

A sad smile suddenly appeared on his lips when he saw several musical instruments scattered around. As he lay there, watching, the events of his life unfolded in front of him like a film.

His gaze finally locked on the harmonium. He picked up his spectacles from the side table. With exaggerated caution he wiped the glasses with his Kurta and slid the gold rimmed frame over his moist eyes. He found it difficult to envision the objects. He rubbed his eyes from the corners with the help of his fingers. He looked straight once again, happy to see his pet objects clearly. An expression of relief spread across his face; music was Subroto’s passion.

Unfortunately, Subroto could not fulfill his dream of becoming a singer. He spent all his life fulfilling his family’s needs. He was left with little time for his own desires. Today, when he was free from all obligations it was too late. It was ironic because he had time now but not his youthful spirit. Not that his zest had diminished. He still followed many renowned singers and did not miss any live performances of his idols. But somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he had created a wall of defeat between him and his passion.

“You are still sleeping? Wake up Subu,” Gayatri said, in a soft voice.

Subroto opened his eyes, blinked several times and smiled at her. He thought he was fortunate to have such a wonderful person as his life partner. At least he was lucky in the marriage department. She was graceful, elegant and belonged to a family of repute. But it was her intelligence which he adored the most. Tall, lithe and fair, she looked beautiful even at the age of fifty two. Subu, as he was lovingly called by her, felt destiny had been kind to him in some ways.

“I am a retired man with nothing to do, so I might as well sleep,” Subroto answered her, appreciating her concern.

“That’s a wrong attitude. You are just fifty five, still capable of doing many things.”

“Okay, so suggest me one.”

Gayatri looked at her husband closely. He appeared pale. The once sparkling eyes carried a look of boredom and self-pity. This is not good, she thought.

“You appear pale. I think you should find a part time job and get out of the house.”

“Gayatri there is no motivation left in my life. But I must confess these days the thought of incompleteness disturbs me. I think I could have done more than just bringing up children and getting them married.”

“Subu, tell me what is troubling you.”

“I can’t figure it out. The anxiety is worrying me.”

“Is this something to with music?”

“I am afraid it is.”

“I know you sacrificed your dream of becoming a singer for your parents. If it wasn't for the forced marriage and other responsibilities you would have made a big name for yourself in the music world. I am sorry you had to compromise.”

“Gayatri, never say that again. If I married you on my parent’s insistence, it does not mean I don't love you. On the contrary, I feel you have played a big part in my life. Today, our children are well educated, married and settled. What more could we ask for?”

“Music. If only you could connect back to music in some way. I am sure your anxiety would go away. Subu, I cannot see you like this.”

“True. But I think I have missed the bus. It’s too late.”

“I am sorry Subu.”

Gayatri pulled up a chair and sat close to her husband. Subroto saw a book in her hand.

“So what are you reading now?”

“Capitalism, a topic which bores you.”

“Not again, Gayatri.”

“Forget the book. Amit called up from New York. He will be visiting us this year during Christmas. Even Nandini is keen to come during that time. The whole family can once again be together.”

“I am happy. At least they meet regularly. The trip from Vancouver to New York is not tiring. They share an incredible bond. This is all because of your upbringing and strict family values.”

“I guess you are right. Nandini told me during her last call that Amit invites them frequently to New York. In fact Nandini‘s husband is planning to move to New York from Vancouver.”

“Great.”

“Amit has sent you images in your mail. Some ship designs you asked for.”

“At least now I will have something to look up to.”

“Why don't you take a walk in the garden? You have never been there. It will relax your mind. In fact you should make it a habit.”

“Gayatri, I am not in the mood. I think I will have a look at those images first.”

“No. You have to go out and get some fresh air.”

“Not now. I will go in the evening. Promise. Meanwhile, give me a cup of tea, while I start the computer.

“Okay. But in the evening……“

“I promise I will go.”

Gayatri ambled across the room to make tea while Subroto moved inside the bedroom. Soon he got engrossed in the images which Amit sent him. If music was his passion then ships were like his second family. Twenty five years of service as a marine engineer had created a unique bond between him and the ships. Even after retirement he updated himself on the latest trend and engineering techniques involved in the shipping industry. Finally, late in the afternoon he took a break. He was thoughtful once again. The photo frames of his son and daughter with their families, kept on the side board cheered him. He turned nostalgic once again remembering the time when Nandini was born. His eyes glistened as he remembered them.

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