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Long ago, in the quiet suburban neighborhood close to the beach there lived a young man. He found a humble place in the house of a young couple who had just begun their married life. He was their house-help, silently doing his chores, always with a gentle smile that never quite reached his eyes, as if hiding some quiet sorrow or secret.
He was an innocent man, simple and kind-hearted, but he played along with others' whims and fancies, often pretending to be part of their dramas - laughing when they laughed, nodding when they nodded, always accommodating. His smile was sometimes a little shy, sometimes a little lost, revealing a set of teeth, some had fallen off, that seemed to have seen more than his face ever told.
Despite his gentle exterior, this guy carried a secret. Hidden beneath his humble demeanor was a small, clandestine habit - he smoked beedi in solitude, a habit he kept from everyone, especially the children he secretly befriended. He would whisper to them, "Don’t tell anyone," with a finger on his lips, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, as if sharing a forbidden treasure.
The young couple, being Government servants, were transferred to their native place after two years. They invited this guy to accompany them but he was not willing to leave his hometown. The young couple moved on with their lives, but every so often, they wondered about their quiet, mysterious helper from the seaside town.
Months, maybe years later, the guy suddenly appeared. No one knew exactly when he would come or go - that was part of his mystery. He would arrive unannounced, sometimes by the dead of night, sometimes during the quiet hours of dawn. His visits were brief, filled with reminiscences of his life in the seaside town, stories of the sea, and memories of simpler days. During these visits, he seemed lost in a world only he understood, reminiscing about the innocence of childhood and the unspoken bonds he had formed. When he finally left, he did so without fanfare, vanishing as mysteriously as he had arrived, leaving behind questions and a sense of nostalgia. The striking thing was he will cry when he leaves. Crying he will leave the house and the children used to look at him with deep felt emotions until he disappeared from sight.
By this time the couple had three children. His visits were a time of rejoice for them. They played all sorts of tricks and pranks on him. The poor fellow will smile innocently playing along with these activities.
One day, the children decided to play a trick on him. They gathered around him and told him a story - a story about a magical tree that showered fortune if you struck a certain nail into its trunk. They convinced him it was true, that if he hammered a nail into the tree in a specific way, good luck would follow forever. Innocent and trusting, he believed their tale. He found an old nail, a sturdy tree nearby, and with all his might, he struck the nail into the trunk, hoping for a blessing. The children watched in silent amusement as him, with a hopeful smile, hammered the nail. When he was done, everyone burst into laughter. The poor man looked at them, puzzled but unoffended. He simply smiled, showing his teeth, and chuckled softly. “Maybe it will work,” he said softly, his eyes twinkling with innocence. When their parents came back after work they scolded him blaming him being the subject of kids' pranks like this.
Children couldnt recollect exactly when he stopped visiting altogether. Parents tried to get some information about his whereabouts but could not. No one knew why or when he would return. He simply disappeared, leaving behind a faint scent of tobacco, a faint smile on his face, and a lingering sense of mystery.
His story was one of quiet longing and innocence- a life shrouded in mystery, forever wandering between the past and the present, never quite revealing the full truth of when he would come and when he would go back. And so, the legend of this guy, the gentle, secretive soul from the seaside town, continued to linger in the hearts of those he touched, a lingering echo of childhood innocence and silent mysteries.
And in the quiet spaces of the children's memories, they held onto a deep, unspoken respect for this innocent soul - so pure, so trusting, so full of quiet dreams. It seemed his life was a gentle reminder that innocence, though fragile, is a precious gift, and that some mysteries are better left untouched, carrying with them the silent stories of a simpler, purer time. Though he was gone, the warmth of his innocence lingered in their hearts, a soft, everlasting memory of a man who played his part in the silent poetry of life.
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