THE HOLE IN GRANDPA’S HOUSE

The next to last time I visited my grandparents' house was when I was ten years old. I spent a fortnight there in the village during my summer vacations. It was a huge house with solid wooden doors and stout pillars and a huge veranda. Everyday, we savoured the tender coconuts and jackfruits from our groves and when everyone napped in the afternoon, I wandered in the house with a story book in my hand, trying to find a good reading spot.

As I walked to the veranda, I found my perfect spot in the corner. It was a broad cement slab with a curved headboard, perfect to lie on my back and read. The wall adjoining it joined the house with the neighbour's and in it was a perfectly oval hole about a feet broad. I was overjoyed and sat down on the slab, imagining myself inside a tree trunk looking at the whole world outside through the oval hole. I spent all my afternoons there reading and gazing at my neighbour's veranda through the hole. I was intrigued. I often wondered why someone would design a hole there in the first place. Maybe women sat there in the late afternoons braiding their hair as they conversed across the hole.

Not long after I found the spot, I met him or maybe it was a her. I didn't think of it then. It was sitting leisurely on the other side of the hole, starting intently at me, its grey and black fur rippling now and then. Every afternoon, the cat and I acknowledged each other in silence and went about our business, me reading my book and it listening to the sounds of the afternoon. One day, I caught the cat by surprise. It was standing a few feet away from me on my side of the hole, Its back away from me. It fled to the other side through the hole. Everyday we played 'catching the cat by surprise' and we believed we were buddies.

As all things cease, my vacation did too. On the last afternoon, I waved goodbye to my buddy, not wishing to break our silence. The silence that made our relationship spiritual. The only other silent friendship I had was with God. And I took one fond look at my perfect hole before I left my grandpa's house.

The last time I visited that house was eleven years later. It was for my grandpa's last rites. He had died on a monday morning and we were there by nightfall. The house was mostly quiet except when his daughters arrived, shrieking in grief. Sixteen days later, all the rituals were done and most of the relatives had left. I got my quiet afternoon again after eleven years. That suddenly brought back the unknowingly suppressed memories of my beloved hole and my buddy.

I raced to my favorite spot. The cement slab stood at the exact place with the same smoothness and same color.The wall adjoining it looked newer. My perfect hole was gone. I sat on the slab, running my fingers on it and sighed. I had lost three things that day. A man I respected but perhaps never loved. A hole, perfect in its deficit. And a buddy, lost in time.