Inheritance

Father would turn around and beam at him. And then, instantly, recognition dawns—he knows, he knows-- his expression would change faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, would continue to grin in the same lopsided manner, and his father would beckon him to his side, looking away to hide the tears that pour harder than the monsoon shower, down his dark cheek. He would walk; his eyes filled with pride, his expression unchanging, and bury his head into his father’s chest. And a bear-hug would follow, and his father would say, between innumerable chokes, “Thank you”
The boy crouched by the river and gazed below at his reflection. The water was blue, the blue of the sky above, the blue of his mother’s sari in the photograph, and green, light-green as the highest of leaves on the tallest of trees, the sun illuminating them with its brilliance; the river bed was golden, glimmering in the light of the sun; Few tiny fish glided leisurely, hardly bothering where they were heading; the river moved even slower than the fish, so slow that snails could wade against the current, so slow that it could have just been asleep; and the river snored softly as it lumbered along, taking with it the mute talk of thousands of its inhabitants.

A falling leaf pirouetted in mid-air before landing with the grace of a princess where his eyes were in the reflection—sending tiny, dancing, concentric, ripples before the current coaxed it move ahead. He smiled at his image in the water and saw his lips let out a sigh, slightly annoyed. It had always been that: “You look just like your father”, a pause, and then “Especially when you smile”. And he would feel a shot of pride, like the time when he caught his first multi-coloured butterfly, and he would beam—showing his crowded, overlapping teeth, that sprouted like coconut trees on the coast, each heading in a different direction—another father-side inheritance. His mother had left him with only her ears—giant, round ones that made his father good-humouredly suggest he dress-up as Gandhi for Independence Day. Everything else was his father’s: deep-brown, wide eyes, long, thin nose and crowded jaws.

He smiled again his signature smile; he saw his father smile at him from the river. He grimaced. It seemed pointless, but he would not lose hope; never give up. It was for his father— the one man who he wanted to be most like; the man who lost his cool as often as snowfall on the ghats; whose words were sparse but weighed and could never be wrong; whose velvet humour was soft: gentle as his laughter, softer than his nature; whose love for his son was mirrored only by his son’s unqualified love for him, like reflection of images on crystal-clear river water.

The whimsical wind picked up, messing up his hair, loosening his collar button: the photograph fell off his fluttering pocket. It was older than he was. At the edges, it was frayed and stained a dull brown. Dressed in a striped dull-orange cotton shirt that he still faithfully wore, his father had more hair, and try as he might, he couldn’t spot the grey hairs along his sideburns that he had almost presumed his father had been born with. He seemed to have been caught at the wrong moment, for his calm eyes were unfocussed, staring at something above the camera, and his mouth had curled itself into an ‘O’.
His mother was staring straight at the camera, her palm carelessly placed on the hand her father had set on her shoulder. Her eyes radiated exuberance—a passion for life itself—that made even her striking blue sari pale into insignificance. And she smiled her one-sided smile, far more to the left than the right—her lips inverted, red twin rainbows of happiness that had been abruptly cut short at one side; one eyebrow raised higher than the other; a single bridge of glee linking her nose to her highly curved left-lip.

It was his mother’s smile that had brought him to the river—a smile that, but for in photographs, he had never seen; a smile that he knew only he, who had more of her than anyone else, could reproduce; a smile he knew his father deemed priceless; a smile that he had vowed to make his own in a span of two weeks—by the 15th of February, his father’s birthday—and he had barely a week left; a smile that he would gift to his father—his most special and best birthday gift ever.

And amidst the river, the trees and the hills, for a full week, he smiled. From noon, after school, to dusk, he would sit amongst them toiling, practicing, replicating—the wind made the trees rustle and applaud in encouragement; the hills seemed as enthralled in his attempt as he was, sharing everything with him—echoing with his laughter and his frustrated cries; the river played its part, trying to stay as calm as ever, his toughest critic, imitating his attempts: he watched, with time and intense practice, in astonishment and ecstasy, his father merge into his mother in its clear water—he saw his right side sit still while his left lips curled exaggeratedly, his eyes brighten up, lit by the intensity of his desire, mirroring his mother’s zeal; a single linking line of joy that his father never called his own surfaced like a welcome guest on his left cheek; and by weekend he got his eyebrows to dance, although unpredictably.
****

The room was fairly dark, angled yellow light seeped in from the neighbouring room through the half-shut door. The constant screeching of insects from the garden trickled through the closed windows. A lizard fell from the wall onto the floor with a muffled thump; bedcovers ruffled. The boy couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t sleep. His mind raced as he played time and again the scene in his head—he saw every single moment in stunning clarity, his own practiced calm and his father breaking down: pride and jubilance etched on every line in his face; he fidgeted and shook in his bed; his heart thumped louder than a thousand falling lizards; a practiced, fixed smile was planted on his young face.

And the clock struck twelve times.

He jumped off his bed and kicked-- his bed-sheet landed virtually five feet away from where he lay. And he paced into the light and immediately shut his eyes, unable to bare its glare. In a few seconds he grew accustomed to the brightness, and made his way silently to his father’s study-cum-bedroom, all the time making sure he was smiling the right way. He sensed the presence of several colourful butterflies in his stomach, his head swam with excitement. And with a knock, he burst into the room smiling and bellowed “Happy birthday!”

Father turned around and beamed at him. And instantly recognition dawned for the expression on his face changed faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, continued to smile in the same lopsided manner as father beckoned him to his side, his face hardened, inscrutable. He walked: his eyes full of pride, his expression unchanging, right up to his father, expectant, excited. And Father grasped him by the shoulders and shook him roughly, trying to wipe the frozen smile off, and when he couldn’t, slapped him hard on his cheek and screamed “Get that thing off your face! She’s gone!”