He bent down lacing his sneakers.  It was a chore – one that got difficult with the years. “They call it second childhood afterall” he sighed straightening up. He walked out into the cold air. It was not cold – cold like the places he had lived in his youth but the cold these days got to him. He draped his woolen scarf tighter around his neck and shivered. Things changed over time. Gradually and steadily. The cold became unbearable, favorite foods indigestible, vision blurry, sounds filtered, joints creaky and oh the list went on.

He walked along watching the sky light up and the world wake up. He walked everyday– hobbling and leaning on his cane. He walked, his muscles complained and feet dragged. He prodded along thinking about the day ahead. A day he will have to endure. The family had arrived in droves – children, grand children and all. Baggage, pets, swimsuits and beach sets all packed in those huge family vans. The house rang with laughter, screams and cries. He enjoyed the sounds and basked in pride.

But today was different. The family would gather around in memory of his wife. They will share stories and a few tears would be shed. They will talk about the lovely foods she used to make – the perfect chaklis , spicy samosas, the spongey cakes and more. They would talk about the noodles and manchurians she made whenever the grandchildren visited. They would pull out pictures of birthday cakes she had baked and decorated and drool over them. “She was always a good chef and it was good to be remembered for that I guess” he muttered. His memories of her in the kitchen will be the experiments that failed – the salty kichidis and the burnt sabjis. He smiled as he thought about those days.

They will remember about her friendly and helping nature. They will exaggerate the smallest things she had done. Like the bird she nursed to health or the mutt that she fed scraps from the kitchen. They will talk about the small treats she gave them and enshrine her. He will smile as they talk and pretend to be lost in thought. The family usually doesn’t expect me to contribute in these trips down memory lane. He will sit there taking in the words, remembering the past and seeing the shift.  “I will listen to the same story with more frills and ruffles added with every passing year. I will listen” he muttered.

Old photo albums, yellow with age will be pulled out. Laughter will reign. The modern day phones will click pictures and they will be shared. He will sit in his chair watching and listening. Stories of how pious, religious and devotional my wife was. Stories of how she went out of her way to help her sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law. Stories of her bargaining skills and her ways of keeping the maids in check. The list went on and the stories got embellished with time. He did not try to explain, add his views or share his memories. He just listened, smiled and nodded.

“I wonder what I will be remembered for and how. What stories will they share? What embellishments will they add?” he wondered as he walked homewards. “The fickle human nature – glorifying and hiding behind rose-tinted views” he scorned. “We decide what and how we remember” he muttered remembering his wife.

His wife – the out-spoken, short-tempered woman with a tart tongue. The family that will sing her praises later today called her names when she was alive – in anger, in despair and in pain. A she-devil, a dragon, a shrew, hellcat and more – names that had hurt her and broken her spirit. “Xantippe – oh that is what she was then and today she is their savior and saint” he scoffed as he walked into the house.

This post is a part of the April A to Z challenge. 26 days, 26 letters and 26 short stories. Come back tomorrow for more.