Old Mr. Hanshaw had his face turned towards the wall, as he lay on his bed, living on borrowed time. 70 years had passed by, almost in a jiffy, he thought. But it must have taken AGES, he reasoned with himself, to have built up the repository of memories which were now reposing in quiet corners of his furiously active brain. He no longer felt keenly about the absence of books by his bed-side. It was enough for him to turn over the chapters which were strewn across his mind, and attempt to string them together, in some semblance of chronology.
The doctor had merely given a grave, subtle little nod to the Nurse, that morning. She thought Old Mr. Hanshaw, as he was popularly known, was too ill to realize the dark significance of her little gesture. But Mr. Hanshaw’s eyes had always been sharp, and he felt a sharp pain slice his insides, with the sharp jaggedness of a serrated-edged knife.
The world was far too precious to him. He had NEVER taken it for granted. He’d be up at five, to keenly welcome each morning, he’d sing a silent ode to the hottest of afternoons, sitting at his office cubicle, he’d worship each evening’s ephemeral loveliness, and he would anticipate each new night with the exhilarated eagerness of a love-cloaked girl, awaiting a letter from her beloved.
His thoughts were always with HER. She was by his side, every waking moment, and every sleeping hour. She nestled against him in the soft hours of those lonesome nights, she was holding his hands, with her feathery fingers, in the first hours of the Dawn, when the Dark Curtains of the previous Night were parting, to make way for a brand new day, a brand new scene. She was with him, as he stirred his porridge in his lonely kitchen, as he bent over slightly to see if he had boiled it enough. Her fingers fluttered nimbly, over his, as he turned the pages of the morning Newspaper. She hovered around, like a formless Angel, when he dressed hurriedly, to get ready for work.When he arrived breathless at the bus stop, she would inspire him with her indefatigably energetic spirit. On afternoons, when his clerical duties seemed never-ending, she would infuse him with an enthusiasm so rare, that the people around him wondered at his passion for the monotonous tasks he so smilingly performed.
The evenings were the most Special of All. She would stroke his hair, mop his brow, and effortlessly glide into his soul, as effortlessly as the gentle, sudden transition, with which the sky went from blue-pink-pitch black and star-studded, with a quiet certainty. No, he was never alone. Yes, she was always there, the Moonshine Girl, the Healer of the Spirit, the Stimulator of all things lovely, the girl he had never had the courage to speak to. And yet, he was never alone. Maybe that’s why he was never alone. Yet, she was never a figure of Exasperating Idealism, which a lot of women become to single men. She was real, she had faults...oh yes, she and Hanshaw would argue in his mind, over a plethora of trivial issues...and the end of each session, Hanshaw would leave a silent rose on his window-sill, to make up for his recalcitrance...the first sign of madness, some had said. Mad, had Hanshaw smirked. Who could be labelled as completely sane?
His thoughts drifted even further back, to his mother. The flowers on the table she so carefully arranged, the loose bun on her head, which she so carelessly tied. The warm smell of her gentle, sudden hugs, the lopsided half smile which danced upon her lips when he returned home with his sports trophies. Her love of all food bland, her love for sad, sad movies, which made her silently cry into her pink, pink handkerchief, while the little Mr. Hanshaw watched on, in great distress (he did not like to see his mother cry, but she so often did, thinking he wouldn’t notice), such thoughts came hurtling back to him now, with the speed of an over-zealous train.
His Father. What memories did he have? Mr. Hanshaw tried to turn out his mind, as he would turn out his pockets on his birthdays, when he would receive sweets from his friends. Yes, his father. He had been a big, busy man, busy doing things which Hanshaw had no idea about. He was hardly ever in the house. He hardly spoke to mother. He was hardly ever there. But Hanshaw did remember the rough sting of his father’s one brusque kiss on his cheek, the only form of affection he ever showed, before he left with that brown, or was it grey suit-case. Did the color matter now? Had it ever mattered? How old had he been, Hanshaw? Seven? Eight? Nine? Did it matter anymore? But that was the end of the Father-chapter. Did he miss his father? Did he judge him harshly in his later years? Hanshaw never did. A father was a father to him, if irresponsible, if callous, if cruel, a father was a father. Hanshaw frowned in the Darkness. These were not his words. These had been his Mother’s last words.
Not of mother, though, no. Mother was always there, sadder still after father left, but somehow happier too.
But what about the University degree? Mr. Hanshaw could never complete it. Blame it all on the broken leg, he thought. But a clerk’s job was not a bad one, someone had to do the work, he’d reasonable reasoned with himself.
His office cubicle had been quite a sight to behold. Cluttered one day, organized the next, cluttered one day, and re-organized the next. And the books of poetry…what poetry did to Hanshaw, a bowl of hot soup did to a sore throat, a cool strip of cloth did to a warm, fevered fore-head, a good night’s sleep did to a worn-out body and mind.
Which quote was playing upon his mind now? No, it was not the one he thought would play in his last hours. “Do not go gentle into that good night…” For Hanshaw had ALWAYS been a gentle man, ready to succumb, ready to yield, and ALWAYS ready to re-adjust. No, he had been delusional in thinking Dylan would win over Keats…
“Now, more than ever it seems rich to die…”
And slowly, the jagged knife inside him melted, as though the pain of his imminent extinction was being extinguished by an unseen, cool, soothing balm…
And then there was John Clare, whose "I AM" was embedded in his mind forever...a sudden flash...three boys who had taunted him by calling him fat...Hanshaw shedding tears...the boys laughing...and She, silently reprimanding the boys, smiling shyly at Hanshaw and running away...that had been her last day at school...
Mad, they had called him, mad Old Hanshaw, MAD in his recent days. Why, he thought? Because he spoke to the birds which perched upon the balcony of the Home? Why, because he remained silent for long, long spells, lost in his realm of memories and dreams? Why, because he refused to eat for three days, as he wanted the poor, thin-as-a-rail lady on the next bed, to have his helping as well. So what if she was not allowed to eat solid food, as they had explained to him. Did they ever really matter, the states of matter? What was the state of his life now? Was he about to assume the gaseous state of diffuse nothingness when his solid body would be laid to rest, soil heaped over it? Were the years in between Liquid, flowing from one incident to the next, one state of existence to another?
He remembered his Physics tutor. He had such huge spectacles. And he detested poetry. What was his name? Hanshaw didn’t pursue this thought. It hadn’t mattered then. It certainly didn’t matter now.
All his life, Mr.Hanshaw had wanted to write a book. It was his only regret. His only regret. But now, in his last waking hours, he realized that all books were not written by hand, there were a few which were authored by Life.
