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It was getting dark
outside and the water was
getting more and more inky
blue, with the fluorescent
white froth of wave crests
flashing in the twilight
as the ship bravely sailed
towards Gibraltar. It was
really getting dark. It
was the cocktail hour. It
was an hour he had loved
back home in Pune. He had
loved everything back home
in Pune. He had loved
everything back home in
Pune because his parents
and sister were there. He
loved his family. For a
moment, he felt a tinge of
remorse as he remembered
how he had traded insults
with his father, who could
be a bit to domineering at
times.
“You have been drinking,” said his father.
“So what if I
have?” his son
replied. “I am not
driving, so I can drink,
can’t I?” This
was a barbed allusion to
his father’s
profession as a taxi
driver.
“Start
drinking when you earn
your own money,”
said the father, who
himself had been imbibing
alcohol, as he did
everyday around this time.
“You don’t
have to tell me how to
spend my money. I will do
what I want with what I
earn.”
“How
dare you talk back to
me?” said the
father, fully flushed in
the face. “I will
dare to do a lot of
things. I am a
daredevil,” the son
said.
By this time, his
mother and sister had
arrived on the scene and
were watching in
reproachful silence.
This happened each and
every day. His father
would come home after
being at the wheel of his
taxi for over eight hours
and would begin to drink,
even before he had
freshened up. Or else, he
would arrive red in the
face and drunk as a lord,
and father and son would
begin to quarrel the
second they set eyes on
one another other. His
mother would try to
intervene and, in the end,
both would retreat to
their rooms sulkily and
there would be peace and
quiet at home. The only
difference between father
and son was in their
levels of ambition.
The
father was a humble taxi
driver and the son wanted
to be a seafarer. At long
last, his father agreed to
fund him for the pre-sea
courses required to become
a cadet. Matters
didn’t end there,
for his father had to once
again raise money to bribe
the manning officer at a
shipping company in order
for the boy to be employed
as a cadet. Such was the
sad state of affairs.
The son was aware that his
father had mortgaged his
property in their
ancestral village and it
was agreed that the son
would free the land once
he become a second officer.
The son kept thinking
about his past, though it
was not very far back. He
had only been on his first
ship for two months and
now it was time to sign
off.
“Hey,
cadet,” shouted an
able-bodied seaman from
the bridge wings,
“The Chief Officer
wants you on the
bridge.”
The
cadet looked up but he did
not answer. What should he
do now?
“Hey,
buddy,” came another
voice from the entrance to
the ship’s
accommodation. “The
cook wants to know how you
will have your fish, fried
or in curry?” This
was the voice of the
messboy. He was from the
cadet’s hometown and
often spent time with him
in the evening.
The
cadet gestured to the
messboy, as if to say that
he had understood what had
been said and that he
would attend to the matter.
As the messboy went back into the accommodation, the cadet
said, “Have to
feed the fish,” and
then quietly slipped into
the cool blue water.
Nobody saw him go
overboard.
Maybe, he had second thoughts before he hit the water.
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