English spring could not make his courtyard more
beautiful. He was sitting in a chair that somehow managed his withered body, trying
hard to fix the minute clutch wheel of the wrist watch. His hands were shivering
owning to his old age. The magnifying lens fitted to his spectacles did no good
to his vision. But wears it every time he settles to repair watches and that
earns him his modest living. He used his thick unkempt nails to locate the
minute yoke spring that he was trying to attach to the clutch wheel,
occasionally wiping of his watery eye, which he was used to, for more than a
decade now.
Suddenly he heard a faint cry from his house. If he could hear the
cry, then it should have been loud enough to a normal ear - he realized. He did
not panic as he was used to such cries that seemed despair to people
who didn't know them. He pushed the chair back. Got hold of his battered
walking stick kept beside his chair, that could just help him support. Pierced
the yoke spring onto the thermocol sheet that he placed on the table
lest he forgets where he left. Slowly walked towards his house, tapping his
walking stick. His knees were bent and frail. The cry was growing more
desperate.
He entered the faintly lit room where she laid. He looked at her.
This cry is the only thing that she did to make him believe that she was
living. He checked if the glucose drip was empty. When air bubbles
entered the veins, the pain was terrible, he knew. It was not empty. He fixed
his eyes on the bed pan under the bed. But her clothes were not wet. He ruled
out that possibility as well. Now there is only one more thing she cried for.
He knew. He stooped a little, leaned towards her forehead. He almost fell on
her face and kissed, slobbering a little. The cry fainted and died down. He
stared at his Jewish girlfriend who could never speak and walked away nodding
his head.
