the staff

‘Crak’, ‘Crak’, the staff made its way through the sands of time, generations witnessing its gradual imprint, in different hands.

A beautiful stick made from local wood, in the famous hill station of Matheran, with its healthy climate, resembled a Dalmatian, with black spots on a cream background. The handle was smooth, the texture finely carved; however, it fully justified the purpose of its construction, that is, to support in the hands of its owner, the weight of the body, and of the mind full of care.

The cane came into the hands of an 80-year-old gentleman who, impeccably dressed, took his faithful companion with him on his night outings. The cane and knight-comrades-in-arms found their way into the libraries of Bombay, as it was then called, the restaurants of yesteryear, parks, and places of worship. Dependence and loyalty were total, only until death separated them, from dust to dust.

The family rebased to another city; the cane traveled along. It had become an indelible memory of the knight he had served so faithfully.

The cane had served its purpose, perhaps that is what one would have thought. He was relegated to the corners of the mansion’s attic, left to lie in oblivion. Forgetting, however, was not like that. Memories never fade; those who serve never lose their usefulness and find a way to help those who have respected them and taken them with them on the journey called life.

When the gentleman’s grandson was getting married, along with the objects in the attic, the cane also jumped, after 30 years of hibernation.

Since then, the cane has always been leaning against a corner of the wall, considered a regular nuisance by the owner of the house, who considered it a hindrance for her daily cleaning tasks. It would seem that the staff could reach different areas of the mansion, all by itself. Years passed, the lady of the house, the old man’s daughter also began to witness the ravages of time, on her now comparatively fragile knees.

The cane found its way into her hands, helping her reach places around the house, like a loyal Dalmatian, spots and all.

As she walked, the young man, her son, noticed from behind, another feature as he limped slowly but steadily, the cane never giving way. In his mind, the man saw the old woman leaning on the old gentleman’s shoulders, her late father, the shadows fading further and further into the distance.

When loved ones leave, they never really leave, right? They leave behind a part of themselves; her spirit continues to support and nurture her loved ones. The old man was my grandfather, the old woman my mother, and the not so young myself.

‘Click’, ‘Click’, -the cane, walked away, keeping the spirits of many generations in its wake.