With him, I have seen, the love used to take on a different form. For a couple hailing from a generation unused to any kind of PDA - whether Public Display of Affection or Private, I guess the only available means to display emotions was through endearing arguments on petty matters. He, my father-in-law, these several many years retired, was - and remains - an avid cricket enthusiast for whom Sachin Tendulkar (or a Saurav Ganguly or a VVS Laxman or a Rahul Dravid or a .... ) could rise to Godhood as spontaneously as they could fall to the depths of corrupt mercenaries in the flash of an outer edge to third slip.
He was - and remains - a die hard fan who, when India is bowling, expects a wicket off every over failing which his choicest invectives would reveal his police origins. Equally, when India bats, a six off every over is not too much to ask for, no? Freely, then, would the abuses flow - in Hindi and Marathi.
Which is perfectly fine by me.
My m-i-l, however, used to think otherwise. And would give voice to her thoughts. Without having to indulge in abusive language, in words that were always in excess of 6 or 8 letters - eschewing the so-called 4 letter words in any language, AND without having to raise her voice - she could and would berate him. And then the fight would start. he'd switch off the telly, turn his back to her, lie down on his cot, facing the wall, and put on a sulk the likes of which Brezhnev could have learned to use to deal with Jimmy Carter back in the days of the Cold War. And she, unmoved by this temper tantrum, would smile at the rest of us - so long as we were there in the same room.
We'd leave them alone for a while - and one could then hear her, whispering sweet nothings, trying to mollify this child who was 80 plus. And he, in turn, would pretend to remain angry, till one of us enters the room. Witnesses present, he would pretend to ungraciously, gruffly, accept that never proffered apology.
Love, I guess, comes in all forms.
And then, one day, she left us, left this world.
He continues to watch the TV, continues to curse and rant and rave at the foibles of the Indian cricket team - having "discovered" his latest victim, Virat Kohli. No one stops him or his abuses now. My wife, his daughter, tries ineffectually to try and ensure that he does not get over excited. She doesn't have that skill which my MIL had.
These days, I've noticed something - perhaps it has been there all along and perhaps it is only NOW that I'm noticing it.
On most mornings, as I sit and read the newspapers and an drinking my mug of SIFC, around 8:30 or so my FIL ventures from his room - fresh, neatly combed hair, freshly cleaned/brushed dentures et al. A very alert and crisp "Good Morning" to me as he goes to the kitchen, as briskly as someone who's 90 plus can be. Then, a bottle of water in hand, he returns to his room.
Slightly less brisk on the return journey. As he crosses me, he slows down even further, almost stopping for a couple of seconds between each step. He stands, immobile, for a little while and seems to gaze, vacantly, at nothing.
I watch him, silently, out of the corner of my eye. I say not a word, hiding behind my newspaper.
When he is sure that no one is watching him, he reaches out a hand, gently, and touches that laminated photo, secretly. His wife of 60 odd years smiles at the touch. I can see him, looking back to ensure that I haven't noticed.
A different generation, a different age. Public Display of Affection? Forget it!
But he loves her, in ways that none of us could ever hope to understand fully.
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