Mr. Havisham

The first time I saw Mr. Varadan, the retired lieutenant who was our neighbour, I knew there was more to him than that fierce exterior of his. He was a widower who lived in an almost ramshackle mansion with overgrown weeds and a gate that gave me the creeps every time it was opened or closed. In retrospect, I now feel he was the male counterpart of the eerie Miss Havisham, but not half as loony.

As neighbours, my father had tried many a time to start a conversation with the old man, but all he received was a haughty sigh that weakened my father’s resolve to try and communicate further. My mother gave Mr. Varadan a warm smile every time there was a chance meeting, but this too received the same kind of indifference. So that left only me. A straggly eight-year-old trying to engage in small talk with a sixty-five year old man.

If Mr. Varadan was a recluse, I was sure he would enjoy my company since I was much like him. I had few friends in the neighbourhood and all the boys were bullies. The girls were too busy playing house or teacher-teacher, which was frankly, beneath me. Even as a child, I was an oddball. And my heart went out to Mr. Varadan.

Sometimes, I would sit in our compound and gaze at his moth-infested mansion. Walls full of cracks, a pavement that was lined with gravel, a heavy-set front door and that was it. Not once did anyone know or try to gather information about what Mr. Varadan did all day long, cooped indoors. He had no servants and was a humble pensioner. I knew this because I once overheard my parents discussing Mr. Varadan and “what that man’s problem was!”

Only two more weeks and school would close for the summer holidays. My father wanted us to visit his parents in Chennai, but my mother had her own way and decided that it was best to stay back in Bangalore. My father ruefully acceded, which meant I was to while away my time for the next two months.

A few days after my school year ended, I spotted Mr. Varadan watering his wilted garden. Since I was rather short for my age, I used a rickety stool near the sump to stand up and greet the old man across the compound wall. I smiled cheerfully at him and for a nanosecond, he smiled back at me. Perhaps he liked smiling only at children, however briefly. This man was making me more curious by the minute.

“I’m Sidhi. Why are you watering dead plants, Mr. Varadan?” I asked him after perfunctorily introducing myself.

“I’ve just sowed some seeds” he said.

“Oh. What kind of seeds? Will they bear fruits someday? Will you share your fruits with us since we’re your neighbours?” My questions tumbled out one after another.

“We’ll see about that later. First, I have to make sure these seeds germinate.”

“May I come over to your house and help you? I like gardening.”

“Are you sure you’re allowed to enter a stranger’s house?” He asked quizzically.

“You’re not a stranger. You’re Mr. Varadan, the retired lieutenant!” I said happily.

He let out a slow chuckle and invited me home. This was it, I thought. The mysterious aura of Mr. Varadan was about to shatter once I knew him better. I was starting to like him already. And I knew he felt the same way. My dress wasn’t exactly presentable, but I guess I would be considered well-dressed enough to stop by a neighbour’s house.

Thankfully, Mr. Varadan’s gate was already partially open. I slid past and ran up to where he was standing. Up close, he looked a lot more haggard than I had thought. His wrinkled forehead had furrows deep enough to sow some seeds there too! His hands were shaking as he watered the soil and I took the hose from him. He watched me with loving eyes, eyes that warmed your heart. Perhaps I reminded him of someone. His granddaughter? Or someone else my age?

“Does your mother know you’re here? She might get worried if she doesn’t find you in your room.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll yell from here if I hear her shouting for me,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Mr. Varadan, may I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see how I can stop you from doing so,” he jokingly added.

“Why do you stay here all alone? Don’t you ever get bored? Do you cook and clean all by yourself? You can come live with my parents and me in our house, if you like.”

Mr. Varadan looked at me without saying a word for a few minutes. His eyes were beginning to well up and I heard him clear his scratchy throat, trying to clear the lump in his throat. I placed my small hands in his and hugged him briefly. At that moment, it seemed like there were no barriers between us at all. Here was a man who was utterly bereft of emotions, forced to harden up and live in his shell, only to be made human again by a child who didn’t know the depth of the effect she had had on him. I wanted Mr. Varadan to come home and dine with us.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, sweetheart” he hesitated.

“But why not? If you can be nice to me, why can’t you be nice to my parents?” I asked sadly.

“Okay, I’d love to visit you someday. But just not today, okay?” he smiled feebly.

“Fine. But promise me you’ll spend an entire day at our house. I have board games that are a lot of fun! We can solve my puzzle books. Or we could plant some of your seeds in our garden. Then you don’t have to share your fruits with us.”

“It’s getting late. You ought to rush back home before your mother sends out a search party for you!”

“Bye, Mr. Varadan. I’ll stop by again tomorrow.”

I dashed back home and found my mother in the kitchen. She asked me where I had been all this while. I told her I was talking to my new friend. For some reason, my parents always thought that meant I’d cooked up a recent imaginary one.

“Is it a boy or a girl this time?” she asked.

“A grown-up man.”

“Okay, Sidhi. If you say so.”

And that was the first and last time I ever spoke with Mr. Varadan. That night, he passed away in his sleep. Although I was too young to understand the reality of death, I still like to believe that he was dreaming of his new friend he had made that day, just like I did, moments before he left this sordid world. A friendship that had lasted just a few happy hours and a friendship that had died even before Mr. Varadan’s seeds had begun to germinate.