The Irony

Hello, Folks!
It’s been long since I blogged. It’s been probably two months since I updated my blog. Within these two months, many things happened.

This is what happened last evening. I jotted the scene the exact way I encountered in the form of a story. Tell me what you think is the irony here, after reading it. Enjoy reading!

Source: Google

The Irony

It is around 5:50 pm. Mum cries, “Subham...,” with a sense of request in her voice.

I leave everything and walk to the room Mum is in. I ask, “What happened?" tensely.

She orders, “Go to the markets and bring these things I have written on the paper,” with a sense of request in her voice.

I’m wrong. My thoughts are wrong. Mum is just asking me to go to the market. I think, “I should not think something which is not gonna happen,” and sigh.

I put on my jacket and leave the house for the market. I climb the stairs down, pull over my jacket cap over my head and cover my head. I step out the building’s main gate and stride to the shop. After a few steps, I plug in my head phone’s pin in my mobile and plug in the ear pads in both of my ears. Select a few songs and play it.Walking to the shop, I murmur the songs. Soon I reach the shop.
I stand there a few minutes and say him my purpose of coming. I see a spouse shopping something for their daughter.

The man says, “Give two different biscuits,” to the shopkeeper.

The woman says, “She doesn’t like biscuits. What if, if she doesn’t eat it?”

The man mouths himself, “If she doesn’t, then, we won’t buy it next time.”

The shopkeeper adds, “Take this time, if she denies eating these, don’t buy it the next time.”

The man adds, “See, he is agreeing!”

The spouse is done with their shopping. They start collecting their things in a bag.

An old lady comes and stands behind the man and says, “Give me a packet of misquote killer incense sticks,” to the shopkeeper, panting. She adds after a short brief, “Your hairs are getting greyer like us,” taunting the man standing before her.

The man giggles. I chuckle with the shopkeeper and the wife of the man standing beside her tittering at himself.

“This is only left. Chahi. See the shopkeeper also needs to colour his hair,” the man says to the old lady, indicating the shopkeeper.

The wife asks, “Why, Chachi? Why did you say that?”

The old lady says, “You have two daughters. Aren’t they going to marry? You will have to marry both of your daughters soon. That’s why I said that.You are pretty clever to understand, Bouma?”

The man agrees, “Yes, Chachi. You are right. I’m getting old at this age only. Don’t know what would happen when I would be of your age?”
The man smiles!

The shopkeeper asks me, “What happen, Babu? What do you need?”

I say, “I need these things,” giving him the piece of paper Mum had handed me.

Suddenly the shopkeeper says, “I don’t have daughters, but still my hairs are getting greyer,” with a hidden irony in it.

I know why he said that. Maybe people standing here know but they are just avoiding it. Is this because he is the father to an alcoholic son? Yes, technically this is the reason.

I can feel the pain in his voice. He feels like killing his own son. But how can he kill his own son? It is impossible for a father to kill his son. Nor even can he throw him out or banish him from the house.  

The shopkeeper has admitted his son to a rehabilitation centre where his son is going to be all right, he believes. He shies saying it to his others when being asked about his son, that he is been admitted there. But, his son has not left him with any other option.

After saying so, the shopkeeper starts bringing out the things which I want. He collects everything and makes a bill of it. He puts everything in a poly bag and hands me over the bag. I pay him and head back home.

Whirling thoughts are making moves in my mind. I don’t find any option to get rid of it. I close my eyes and take a long breathe to escape whatever is going in there. Exhale it and everything seems clear and I feel lighter. I walk and breathe. I keep on walking until I reach home and try to forget everything.


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