Friend for life

Sometimes you could make a great friend for the shortest possible time, but it’s worth every meeting.
A short story by SYDNEY SRINIVAS

For some years now, it has been my habit to walk for about an hour every day. The routine begins on Homebush Road and ends in Newton, and serves a dual purpose. It helps me plan activities for the day and it helps me meet people. I see the same familiar faces every day. Some stop for a chat about music, literature or cricket. Some just smile and carry on walking while others pretend not to see me, but I don’t really care, these are daily occurances. I used to see an old woman with a walker; she was always immaculately dressed. We would look at each other, but no word or smile was ever exchanged.

Once I had to stop and talk to her. She stood in the middle of the footpath, looking lost. It was clear she needed help as her handbag had fallen out of her walker and she could not bend to pick it up.

“Would you like me to pick up your handbag?” I asked her, politely.
“Yes please, I’ll be grateful.”
I picked it up, and placed it on the handle of the walker, where it wouldn’t fall over again.
“I was scared that some naughty kids might pick it up and run away. Thank goodness you came to help. Alone, I don’t know what I would have done,” she said anxiously.
I smiled and was about to walk away when she said, “I’m sure you are Indian. You certainly look it and that’s why I allowed you to help. I know Indians are very cultured, no one need be scared of them.”
I thanked her and left, feeling a warm sense of satisfaction for helping someone that day. On reaching home I told my wife Lalita about what had happened. She merely said, “So you picked up some old lady’s handbag and returned it to her. Why are you boasting?”

I was curious about the old lady and hoped to meet her again. After a few days, I saw here again and this time she stopped, clearly wanting to chat.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine, and you?”

(Lalita) merely said, “So you picked up some old lady’s handbag and returned it to her. Why are you boasting?”

That started her off and she went on and on. She was on her way to her daughter’s house which was nearby. She had three sons and a daughter. Her husband owned a vegetable shop, but had died ten years ago. They were divorced five years before his death. Her name was Teresa, she was 80 and Italian. Naturally, I reported all this to my wife. She was not the least interested.
“You’re mad! Why bother about an old Italian lady? Can’t you just go for a walk and be done with it? Noone behaves like you and does such things!”
Well, that’s her usual reaction all my endeavors! Sure, no one else does such things. That’s why I do them!

I figured out that Teresa visited her daughter every Saturday around 10am, so I adjusted my walking schedule accordingly. We met on a bench and talked. Teresa told me about her children. George, the oldest (and rudest), owned two Benz cars and a successful restaurant in Leichardt. “If he needs to serve up any special item, he comes to me for the recipe. But his wife is also like him. She does not talk to me,” she confided.
“John made it to Uni and now works in Brisbane. Now and then, he and his family visit me. But my youngest, Charlie, a handyman, is the most helpful of all. He is always busy, and yet finds time to drop in. He is a great help in maintaining my house. His wife is very kind and lovely,” she mused.

“Isabella, my daughter lives close by and although her daughter Anita goes to Uni, she practically lives with me. She helps me a lot, even to the extent of leaving my meals on the kitchen table for me, or Isabella brings me food. This is my life, you see…” Teresa concluded.
The next time we met, she talked about her grandchildren. “I have ten in all. Can you imagine what fun I have when they all visit me? I always cook something special for them, but of course, Anita helps.”

For my part as it were, I told Teresa all about my family and she showed an interest in my wife and daughter. “Has Lolita (Lalita was easier as Lolita in her Italian accent) recovered from her headache? How is your daughter Radhika? She should get married once she completes her studies. If you do not insist, these children tend to remain unmarried,” she advised.

Soon, I not just expected to see Teresa, but missed her when she did not turn up. I would go through bouts of restlessness and Lalita would comment, “Didn’t meet Teresa today, hmmm?” One Saturday as soon as we met Teresa said,“I made biscotti a couple of days ago and they were perfect. You must taste them. I’ve saved some for you. Will you collect them from my house?”
“Sure,” I said, ever ready to accept such treats.
“That would be great,” she replied. “I live on North Street, at No 19. But avoid coming over on a Tuesday, if possible,” she said mysteriously.

A few days later, on my way to the Flemington market, I drove along North Road. Thinking this would be a good time to collect my biscotti, I stopped in front of No. 19. I rang the doorbell and after a pause, a well-built man opened the door. I guessed this must be Teresa’s son.
“What do you want?” he asked abruptly.
“I wanted to speak to Teresa,” I said
“She’s sleeping,” was the curt reply, and before I could say another word, the door slammed in my face. I felt like I’d been slapped!
I felt stupid. What am I to these people? Why did I bother calling on her? I was also terribly angry at her son, but at the same time, I pitied his mother. Suddenly I recollected that it was a Tuesday, the specific day on which Teresa has asked me to avoid visiting her.

I may never see her on the street again, I reasoned, but Thursday is when her entire family would visit and it would be an intimate occasion

The following Saturday, a middle-aged woman and her young daughter were sitting on the bench at which Teresa and I usually met for our chats.
“Hello,” she said as I approached them, “I’m Isabella, and this is Anita.”
“So you are Teresa’s daughter?”
“Yes, Mum sent me. She had a fall three days ago and cannot walk,” she said sadly.
I was momentarily speechless.
“We’re sorry for what happened when you visited Mum,” Isabella continued. “My brother can be quite bad mannered sometimes. When she heard what happened, Mum felt very bad. She thinks of you as her own son, and asked us to apologize to you.”
“Please don’t worry. Such things do happen,” I said.
“Here are your biscotti,” said Isabella, handing me a plastic box. “And please do try and visit Mum again. She may not be able to walk again.”
“I will,” I promised
“Next Thursday will be a good day, as it’s her birthday. Maybe you could drop in then?”

Walking away, I gave the invitation serious thought. I may never see her on the street again, I reasoned, but Thursday is when her entire family would visit and it would be an intimate occasion. I didn’t want to intrude. I’ll go on Monday, I decided.
Only stopping to buy a bouquet of flowers, I arrived at Teresa’s house on Monday. Isabella answered the door, Anita was right behind her. Neither of them spoke to me.
“Well, how are you? And how’s Teresa?” I asked, feeling awkward.
“You’re late. Mum did’nt get up two days before her birthday. Her funeral is the day after tomorrow.”