Short Story

Lara

The old man’s hand was trembling. Initially, I dismissed it as the rhythmic vibration of the bus, but I was soon corrected. In his other hand, he clutched an umbrella which swayed with a life of its own. It was, I must admit, a trifle unsettling to behold.

I was traveling alone toward Marine Platz for dinner, having set out from my son’s house in Munich.

"Are you quite alright, sir?"

I ventured to ask.

He turned toward me but offered no reply. With those trembling hands, he resumed staring out of the window. After a few minutes of heavy silence, he suddenly swung around and asked in a voice of impeccable, crystal-clear English, "Are you from India or Pakistan?"

"India. South India, to be precise."

"I thought as much," he said, surveying me. "You have Dravidian features."

"How do you..." I began, my curiosity piqued.

"I spent a part of my school days in South India," he interrupted. "Ootacamund—Wellington, actually. My father was the Chief Commander there. I was twelve years old at the time."

"Indeed?"

"Only for two years. Then we returned."

"Your English is remarkable," I remarked.

"I am an Englishman! British!" he declared, his voice swelling with a touch of that old-school imperial pride. He returned his gaze to the street outside. A few miles rolled by in silence.

"Your government lacks backbone," he suddenly barked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"This business in Kashmir. If it were us, we would have settled the matter in a matter of days. You lose so much by simply talking. So many lives. I follow the BBC religiously, you know."

I chose the path of silence.

"You know, I am a Second World War veteran," he continued, his tone shifting into something uncomfortably frantic.

"Right here in Germany, I flew a Hawker Demon. I’ve dropped bombs and wiped-out people in great heaps."

His eyes took on a manic glint.

"I saw it all myself. Women, children... many lives hung by the tip of my finger on a button. I would dive like an eagle. 'Whish!'—that magical moment when the bombs scatter. I would pull the plane up and look back. That sight... words fail me. The brilliant flash of light, the ecstatic sound of the explosion—those were moments of divine power!"

He fell silent again, seemingly savouring his own narration. He peered through the window with squinted eyes. I found myself utterly speechless.

"If you want to see a real army, look at us. That discipline!"

His hand began to stroke the windowpane with a peculiar gentleness. I watched, fascinated. A small insect was crawling across the glass. The old man placed his hand near it, coaxing it to climb onto his skin. After a moment of hesitation, the creature crawled onto his hand. He moved his trembling hand with extreme, almost tender care toward his other palm—and then, with a sudden 'thwack,' he crushed it.

Wiping his hand, he muttered, "Bloody German insect."

I stared at him in horror.

"What are you looking at?" he snapped. "Give me a Hawker Demon today and I shall show you. I’d stir up your Kashmir and send those Pakistanis running for their lives."

To steer the conversation away from carnage, I asked, "What brings you here to Munich?"

"I arrived last week. On account of my daughter."

"Is that so? Does she live here?"

I couldn't tell if pride flickered in his eyes or not. He remained silent, and by now, I had grown accustomed to his sudden lapses into stillness.

"Lara. She was a green-eyed beauty. Like me."

His mouth twisted into what I assumed was a smile.

 "Lords in England were waiting for her hand, but she went and married a German boy from this town. Love, she called it! Hah!"

"You didn't care for him?"

"A common architect. He sold her some dreams and bought her heart. Foolish girl! He likely had an eye on my estate. She couldn't see it."

"Are you visiting her now?"

"No. I couldn't see her."

"Why not?"

"They had buried her before I arrived."

I felt a chill run down my spine.

"A car accident on the Autobahn coming from Salzburg. Both killed on the spot."

"I am terribly sorry," I said. "Your loss is immense."

I didn't know what else one says in such a moment.

The man spat out a vulgar English curse directed at the Germans.

"They say her insurance is only fifty thousand Euros. Her husband’s brother has walked away with two hundred thousand. What absurd laws in this wretched country!"

My destination stop had arrived. I stood up and stepped off the bus without a word. I did not even bid him goodbye.

Later, during dinner, my business associate was in high spirits.

"Hey! Do you know? We’ve bagged an eighty-thousand Pound contract!"

"Oh, wonderful! From where?"

"London, England! Imagine! On the banks of the Thames!"

My colleague sang out in delight.

"No," "I don't want it."

I said, with absolute clarity.