The Boy Who Is Not Home Yet

The last rays of the sun were failing to warm up the eerie winter winds.

She walked up to his son’s room to check whether he was home, with the computer switched on. She knew that when he gets back from school he goes directly to his room, switches on the computer and plays games. If he wasn’t not playing games, he was making a new video for his YouTube channel.

“You know what. We were not getting Wi-Fi signals properly. He thought over it and made a make-shift signal relayer using some metallic sheets,” she said, without expecting any reaction from me.

“You must see him fly a drone. He flies them like a pro. He understands every little movement and would quickly change the direction using the remote,” she added.

She must have told me this a hundred times. But I knew there’s no use in interrupting her. She’d say what she wanted to say, anyway.

“Of late, he’s developed an interest in drones. He can fly drones like a pro. He learnt it on his own,” she continued.

She was paying little attention whether I was paying enough attention. It’s a problem with most parents. They can’t help going on talking about their children.

The day was fading into the darkness. It was getting darker by the minute.

“I suspect he can fly like a bird. How else could he know the pace of a drone that is in freefall?,” she wondered.

She got up suddenly and went to his room yet again. “He understands science like I understand cooking. I will ask him to explain that Youtube programme that he’s been talking about of late, to you” she said, smiling.

I nodded in agreement.

The colony slipped into the night. Lights were lit up in the corridors, in the houses and on the roads.

She was not her natural self that day. She looked a bit nervous. Perhaps, she thought I would leave before her son was back home. Or, she was worried that I would leave without seeing his gaming skills.

I tried to tell her I’d all the time in the world that day and that I would definitely see him play. I don’t know whether I really tried to convey that, or just imagined telling her.

She remained sat for a while. She looked lost in thought. Suddenly, she got up and went to his room again and came back with an album. She thrust the bulky album into my hands. I opened a random flip.

“That was when we went to that place,” she said, pointing to one of the four photos in that flip.

The boy, who must have been 12 or 13, oozeed life, with his eyes glittering with smile.

“And, this was when we went on a long drive. That was at the cinema.”

She had a story to tell about each photograph. It looked as if she was reliving all those moments. She had an anecdote for every moment and each one looked so precious to her.

“Where did he go? It is quite unusual. He would have come by now,” she murmured.

***
I excused myself and told her I needed to go.

“Wait. Oh, sorry I forgot to make you some coffee,” she got up and walked up to the kitchen. It was obvious. She wanted me to hang around for some more time.

I waited as she came out of the kitchen and checked on the corridor to see whether he had come. She looked around and tried to figure out if her son was among the kids in the playground.

As she walked back to the kitchen, she glanced at his room hoping that he might have tiptoed into the house to surprise her.

She came back with two cups of coffee in a tray and put it on the teapoy near the sofa.

She spoke nothing while she sipped her coffee and looked at the door, and into the night.

I finished mine and got up to leave.

Before I left, I opened my shoulder-bag and took out an envelope. I kept it on the table and left the place, without saying goodbye.  I didn’t have the heart to see her face.

It encased the hospital record of the boy who had succumbed to a carcinoma after a valiant fight.

***