The sunflower seeds he planted a few days back have sprouted into little lively saplings. It's his job to water them everyday. He loves to watch the movements of the buzzing bees around the tiny yellow flowers. His wife used to love walking barefoot on the lush green grasses of this little garden at the backyard of their small home. Her favorite tree of Rangoon creeper is in full bloom now. Some of the flowers are lying carelessly on the green grass below. The Marigold saplings planted by his wife last year have outgrown into rough edged shrubs. But he doesn't want to disturb them. They are intact in their lonely corner. Their presence is one of those factors that makes him feel attached to the garden, to the house and probably to his life. Life has never been a joyride for him; premature death of his parents made him mature at a tender age. He grew up to be a sombre man, but with age came petulance. The image of this man in white pyjama who is tending the plants with utmost care is an utter contrast to the image of the cranky old man whose face reflects not even an iota of emotions. Some people are good at hiding emotions, but some are even better in denying them. He is digging the wet soil to plant some more saplings. His grey hair and white pyjama have put the garden air curiously at ease in the wee hours of the morning. He sets aside the worn out Nokia 2626 which was hanging from his neck and causing trouble in digging the soil. It accompanies him almost everywhere; even after recurrent persuasion from his only daughter he has not yet given his consent in replacing it with a smartphone. The phone rings; it is already 7 a.m., the usual time to get the routine call from his daughter. "Hello, baba! Good morning. Are you still there in the garden?" "Yes, I am planting some saplings of Rangoon creepers." "Okay. But don't remain barefooted on the wet soil. This is not the right time to catch cold, you know. Have you taken your medicines?" "Not yet. My stomach will remain empty for the next half an hour too. So I can take it anytime soon." "Sumitra Di used to arrive at 6.30 a.m., right? Why don't you tell her anything?" "Why should I? I can enjoy the morning silence for half an hour more, after all! But since you are coming, I will tell her to be on time from next Friday onwards." "Baba! I don't think I will be able to visit Agartala this time. No flights are going to be active at the present moment, they said. Official notification will come out within two days." "Oh! You are not coming then?" "No. I think I wont be able to come home now. Would try again during the Puja holidays, provided everything comes back to normalcy." "Oh. Okay. I was thinking about renovating your room." "Leave it, baba. This is irrelevant right now. Have you bought sanitizers and masks for you?" "I go to the market twice a week. That's all. Even Das is not visiting me nowadays as our evening walks are already cancelled." "Still you need to get these things immediately. Sumitra di is an outsider, and she works in two other households too. She might bring the germs along with her." "Should I send her on leave then? I have already told the paper boy not to bring the newspaper for me!" "Who will cook for you then!" "Stop bothering about me! I can take care of myself. Cooking is not a big deal. Is everything okay at your workplace?" "Yes. We have resorted to the work-from-home mode from yesterday. " "Okay. Take care of yourself. My hands are muddy. I need to wash them." "Okay, baba. You too take care. And please don't forget to take your medicines. Bye." The routine calls from his daughter who works for an MNC at Bangalore make him feel cared for. But today the sudden cancellation of her scheduled arrival has rendered him irritated and hopeless. This pandemic is ruining it all! His ex-colleague and evening-walk partner has stopped visiting him. The casual meetings and interactions with old friends during the daily strolls used to put a bit of color in his otherwise bland life. And now, when he is preparing for the arrival of his daughter who visited home last year after the sudden demise of her mother, his share of happiness gets demurred. He survived the blow of sudden demise of his wife because of his daughter, Rini, who had brought ample happiness in their life. The couple had to struggle hard to adjust to the imminent lack when Rini shifted her base to Bangalore in 2016. He stands up and goes inside the house . The house seems gloomy too; the windows are not yet opened. Lack of the usual cacophony caused by the horns of vehicles, and the yells from the mobile fish sellers and the mothers of school-going kids who are about to miss the school bus have rendered the atmosphere dispirited. The housemaid arrives at 7.10 a.m and leaves within one hour; the menu is simple and hassle free. Daal, boiled bhindi and fish curry - enough to fill the old man's stomach. But his mind is already filled with nostalgia - thoughts of his wife and daughter. Yearning for the past can shield us from the cold unknowns of tomorrow. But living solely in the past can take away the very essence of the present. It's evening time now. Das calls him to inform about the first covid death in Tripura and tells him to stay safe. He sits before the T.V. set which was about to be sent for repairing, but the sudden lockdown didn't let it happen. After glancing through the old newspapers, he takes out the old photo albums from the almirah. He sits again on the chair. The beckoning from the past is so enchanting! One needs to be fully engrossed in the present to resist it's honey trap. His mind is flooded with memories. But the fatigue is too strong to keep him awake. He slips into the world of dreams with an album open upon his chest. The smile on his face has not yet receded. The other photo albums are scattered on the table and beside them is lying the strip of lizinopril, intact and unused. He detests to take the daily dose of medicine suggested for high blood pressure as he believes it causes incessant botheration for him. Rini knows her father very well and that is why she makes the early morning calls to remind him about the medicine to be taken in empty stomach. The light of the early morning has entered the room through the ventilators and has created beautiful patterns on the floor. The septuagenarian is still engrossed in his dreamy sleep. It's 7.00 a.m. and the Nokia 2626 hanging from his neck starts ringing with a buzzing sound. It's Rini again. But the owner is too asleep to attend the call. It keeps on ringing again and again. The saplings of Rangoon creepers outside are swaying with the morning breeze, blowing gently through the garden; their leaves are looking upward as if they are conveying their gratitude with prayers and silence.
