Embracing the Light

Dhaval was already waiting at the door when it arrived. The dappled midday sun danced across the floorboards and the polished brown leather of his sandals. He paused to relish the moment of anticipation, the sun hot upon his toes. A small chestnut coloured rectangular envelope sat at his feet. Red capitals pasted across the front - ‘IMPORTANT’ - told Dhaval everything he needed to know; this was the one he’d been waiting for. He collected it quietly, feeling its smooth texture in his hand as he strode back to his leather chair. He lowered himself towards it before dropping the rest of the way. His rickety joints didn’t let him get away with much these days. He pushed his spectacles up his nose slightly, wrinkling his brow while he tore the envelope open.

The workshop was a modest space. Some might have regarded it as cluttered, but after 43 years perfecting his craft here, Dhaval had it organised just as he liked. The first half of the wall to his right was covered with shelves spilling out dusty files and books, outdated materials hung like peculiar jungle plants from the sheesham wood, which was in dire need of maintenance. Next to the shelves stood Dhaval’s fabrics: rich wools, subtle linens, the finest of cottons and the softest of silks. When he was a young boy, Dhaval would sit for hours on end watching his father handling his elaborate materials, which he could barely afford in those days. But if his father taught him one thing, it was that you cannot make an honest suit without fabric fit for a king. 

The opposite side of the shop was occupied by sturdy workbenches and tables. Several sewing machines and half empty packets of beedis were scattered about, which explained the deep set, spiced scent of tobacco that hung thick in the air. People regularly wandered past the large windows at the front of the workshop, often popping in to see what Dhaval was crafting. Sounds of beeping horns drifted into the shop from the busy road joining the end of the small side street, a necessary reminder of the sprawling city that surrounded him. The notoriously creaky pipes that spluttered and coughed around the workshop seemed to combine with the horns and whistles outside to create an estranged samba band.

Bing bing bing! The front door swung open and Dhaval hurried to close the letter, concealing it from view. 
“Dhaval! My god, it’s roasting out there today, I’ve never known Kolkata this hot in January!”. 
Sanjana flapped into the shop, an electrical current of chaos. Nothing out of the ordinary though. She was a fairly new but loyal customer. Dhaval liked her a lot. But he struggled to understand why she always seemed to be in a rush, limbs at all angles as she zoomed from one place to the next. Nevertheless, she was a kind, sensitive woman and that is what Dhaval valued more than anything.
He chuckled, “You’ve only been living here two years! Not much to go by is it?”.
“Alright! No need to try to outsmart me. Why not use your expert opinion and tell me honestly? Don’t you think it’s hot out there?” Sanjana smiled, gesturing to the outside street.
“Never said you were wrong”, Dhaval replied, “haven’t you read the news? Global warming is coming for us all. This is only the beginning.”
Sanjana laughed fondly, stood next to the counter in a sea of her own shopping bags, no doubt full of food and other necessities for her three children and husband, Pavan.
“Is it ready then? Pav’s been really excited for this one, it’s for an important work party next weekend.”
Dhaval strolled over to the storage cupboard in the corner of the shop, scanning through a series of packages and garment bags. “Ah! Here it is…” he leaned inside and retrieved an opaque charcoal garment bag. “Let me know if he needs any adjustments.”
“Dhaval, you’re too modest. It’ll be perfect and you know better than I do – you get it right every time,” Sanjana said, unzipping the garment bag as Dhaval handed it over. “Oh Dhaval! It’s beautiful, thank you. Just right for the party.”

Dhaval beamed. Even after more than forty years as a highly respected tailor, the glow of satisfaction at a happy customer had never faded.
“Right, I should get on my way. I can’t wait to show this to Pavan. Thanks again Dhaval.” She sighed, readjusting her deep green, silk sari before bustling out of the shop, one more bag added to her collection.

Dhaval swam in his own silence again. Back in his familiar leather chair, he picked up the letter and re-read it. The stillness in the room felt impenetrable. A large bead of sweat travelled from Dhaval’s receding hairline, trailed down his cheek and dropped onto the letter that now sat quietly in his lap. He coughed violently, his breath strained. Reaching down to the wooden table to his right, he grabbed his notebook and Nokia brick phone. Another hard cough. He scrambled through hundreds if not thousands of customers’ numbers spanning over thirty years. There she is. Asha.

He hurriedly moved across to the door, flipping the sign closed and turning the lock before tucking himself away at the back of the shop, out of sight. He wished his heart would stop jumping so fast. Hands like an earthquake, he held the phone close and dialed.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded just the same. Dhaval paused.
“Asha… hi… it’s…”
“Dhaval.” She cut him off. “It’s been so long.”
“Asha, I… sorry but…”
“What’s wrong Dhaval? Why are you calling me?” Her voice was kind but nervous, wary.
Dhaval exhaled. He couldn’t find the words. Hot blood pumped through his ears as he stood motionlessly. 
“Asha, I need to see him.” 
Tears sprung to his eyes for the first time in years, stinging as he held them back.
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Are you expecting Sahil to have changed?” 
A deep anger in her voice gave itself away momentarily. 
“No. No… not at all. It’s been a long time Asha… I think it’s me who has changed.”
The line went quiet for a moment as Asha considered.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. He’s been happy recently, happier than he has been in years and this could just…”
Dhaval raised his voice slightly, desperately. 
“Asha please! Please. I really need to do this. Now or never. Please.”
Silence. 
“Ok,” she sighed, “but please be kind, he’s been through enough pain.” 
Dhaval closed his eyes, guilt seeping through him. It was a different kind of guilt to the one he’d felt continuously over the years. A more immediate, burning guilt. 
“You know the Samar Sarani road? He lives there, number 288. He should be there today. Ok?”
Dhaval panted a sigh of relief, “Ok, thank you.”
The line went dead.

Dhaval took a big breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so many feelings at once. His bloodshot brown eyes darted across the workshop. Letters. His brain felt fried. He strode over to the corner of the workshop by the window, opening a badly painted green cupboard. 288, 288, 288, he repeated in his head. Inside sat copious piles of dusty, hand-written letters tied together with worn pieces of string. He grabbed a brown leather duffel bag from above the cupboard, stuffing the fifteen years’ worth of letters inside. He struggled to close the zip. Lit a beedi. Heavy plumes of smoke drifted towards the ceiling. Keys… keys… Dhaval stood in the middle of the room, spinning round searching. Oh yeah… stupid. They were hanging in the lock. He stepped out into the dry, harsh air. It really is hot he thought, walking into the heat of the day.

Dhaval lived on the edge of the Amtala district of Kolkata, a friendly neighborhood just outside the new town. Although it was mid-winter, the streets were dusty and humid, and it didn’t take long to be covered in a layer of dirt and sweat just from being outdoors. It was a thirty-minute walk to the address Asha had given him. 288. After living in the neighbourhood his whole life, he recognised almost everyone, and simply lifted a hand to greet any familiar faces. As he marched along the main road, the sharp, clear beeps of rickshaw horns chorused as they sped by, kicking up dust in their path. Tiny specs sat in beams of ethereal light that hit the street through slow moving clouds. 288. Men sat around in chai stalls, playing cards and sweating on cheap plastic chairs. A market was in full flow around him now, piles of brilliant red and sun-yellow ground spices stood against the walls, lumpy vegetables lay on tatty blankets in the shade. Barefoot children in dirty rags ran past, squeezing through small gaps in the chaos of people and carts. His chest exploded into a frenzied coughing fit. He stopped to recover. The smell of raw meat sat on the air. Dhaval felt nauseous, stomach swaying with nerves. He set off again. Not much further. 288. He gripped the bag of letters tight against him. What do I say? Everything was happening too fast as he strode from street to street. He turned a corner. 288. I’m here.

A small blue door next to an electrical shop. 288… this must be it. He looked around, breathless, but not from the walk. It was a nice enough street; quiet, residential. Stray dogs fought over some lurid red meat next to him. How do I do this? He stood there, tried to look casual when a man from the electrical shop came outside for a cigarette. Wish I hadn’t forgotten my beedis. He pushed the doorbell. It sounded in the distance. Deep breath. Straighten up. Dhaval smoothed down his white cotton shirt, it was too late to conceal the damp patches of sweat that had formed. His hands were clammy against the material. The door swung open. The two men stood for a moment, taking each other in. Does he know who I am?

“Dad…?” Sahil stuttered.
Dhaval hardly recognised his son. It made sense, of course, but it also didn’t somehow. The bandy, nervous boy with the soft eyes that he knew all those years ago was no longer. What have I missed?
“Dad, what are you doing here? What… what’s going on?”
Dhaval looked down at the floor, then back up to meet Sahil’s face. 
“Your mum gave me your address... I’m so sorry Sahil. I think we need to talk... if you’d like to?”
Sahil shuffled uneasily from foot to foot, eyes darting, not sure where to look. He wore a sky-blue t-shirt and pair of fitted jeans that complimented his toned physique. He looked younger than he was - his early forties - but his eyes were evidence of his years. 
“I’m not sure… why should I?” he murmured cautiously.
Dhaval took a small step forward.
“I mean, you don’t have to. I just want to talk, I have a lot I want to tell you and apologise for,” he sighed, “we’ve lost so many years.” 
Sahil stood silently. 
“Please Sahil, I know I don’t deserve anything from you, but it would mean so much if we could talk, you don’t even need to see me again if you don’t want to. Maybe I could come in? Or… we could grab a drink together?” 
He gestured along the street. Sahil looked up, his forehead defined with deep creases. Contemplating his father’s desperate expression, his frail body, his shiny leather sandals like the ones he always used to wear, he replied.
“Come in. We can have a drink.” He stood back, holding the door. Dhaval wheezed as he left the hot street behind.

Sahil’s apartment was sleek and modern. He’d obviously done well for himself. Light flooded through the blinds into the room, which contained a small kitchen and living space with a sturdy wooden dining table under the window. Dhaval glanced around at the perfectly shaped rectangular kitchen units and polished worksurfaces. It was a catalogue kitchen, but Sahil had certainly made it his own. Half-familiar faces smiled out from pictures that decorated the warm orange walls. A sweet, fruity string of smoke floated and spiralled in the corner of the room where an incense stick burned down. Dhaval gripped the bag of letters tightly.
“Tea?” Sahil turned to his father.
“Yes, yes please,” Dhaval replied quietly, taking a seat at the table. 
Silence. Sahil was overwhelmed and finding it hard to concentrate on making the tea properly. Dhaval sat very still, taking it all in. He wasn’t sure if it was the floods of white light or the smoke of the incense that made everything feel hazy and dream like. The whistle of the boiling kettle broke the silence. Sahil turned on his father.
“Why are you here?” he spat.
“Sahil, I’ve come to apologize, I need to explain…”
Sahil rolled his eyes, taking a slow step forward.
“Explain what dad? How you abandoned me? I needed you… and you just threw me away. Your only son… I’ve lived my life without a dad because of you. And why? What for?” 
His voice trembled slightly. Dhaval’s eyes were fixed on his son. 
“I felt so much shame… and fear. I felt like I was nothing. And what did you tell me, your son?” 
Rage filled every corner of the room as Sahil’s words bellowed out. 
“Be ashamed, be scared… you’re nothing. You’re nothing… if you’re gay.” A tear ran down his face and he wiped it away, his breath heavy. Dhaval still stared at his son. What have I done?
Sahil spoke again, his voice fearful and tight.
“If you’re here to cause more pain, please go. It’s taken me so long to pick myself back up again and forget about all this.”

Dhaval stood quickly. Come on. Take your chance. 
“Please sit down Sahil, I’d like to explain everything,” he said firmly, taking a step forward and gesturing towards the suede grey sofa that took up most of the space in the living room. Sahil trudged across and sat there stiffly, his eyes bright and feeling.

Determined not to let his fear cloud his vision once again, Dhaval spoke.
“Sahil, the day I left you… I made a huge mistake. My ignorance and fear, well, they won over my love for you. I paid the price in the loss of my only son. But that was my choice… And I live in the consequences. You didn’t make that choice, but you’ve still had to suffer all these years. No father should abandon their son… for anything. I know I’ve failed you. For that I’m so sorry, for everything I’m so sorry… You’re my son, that’s what matters.” Dhaval’s cheeks were wet with tears, his chest heaving and crackling. Sahil watched the floor, still and reflective. The light was changing now as the sun dropped in the sky and the room was awash with golden tones.
“Why didn’t you come before? It’s been twenty years,” Sahil looked at his father, his face softened.
“I wanted to Sahil, really,” he turned and collected the bag from where he’d left it on the table.
“I wrote you these letters. I just couldn’t let myself try to send them.” Dhaval passed the bag of crinkled papers to his son, who pulled out a bundle, letting his fingers feel the pages of his father’s shame. 
“I just thought as soon as I tried to get you back, you’d reject me, just like I did to you. Then it really would all be over.” Dhaval’s shoulders sunk into his thin body as he walked to sit next to his son. 
“Fear just got in my way again… I was so stupid.” 

Dhaval looked up towards the window, letting the glorious light saturate his face. He rested his eyes, enjoying the warmth on his skin. Sahil spoke, a glimmer of hope in his eye and a cocktail of emotions in his voice.
“Thank you for bringing these.” 
The two men turned to each other, their eyes meeting for the first time in twenty years. 
“I’m so sorry,” Dhaval whispered.

___________________

Various acquaintances had been coming and going all day. The bedroom was abundant with vivid blooming flowers and Asha’s homemade dahls in plastic Tupperware. As the sun began to set, the room became golden and the two men found themselves alone again. The hum of distant traffic and the hazy vibration of Hindi music coming from a nearby shop floated on the breeze that flowed through the open window. Sahil sat next to it, the curtains dancing with the wind and brushing against his back as he watched his father. A serene orange light illuminated Dhaval, who lay under the white cotton sheets of his bed, his face thin and his body frail. He looked so small in his big bed, almost child-like. They sat quietly, Dhaval wandering in and out of sleep, his breathing shallow and labored. Occasionally he would wake himself up coughing and Sahil would rush to his side to comfort him. But as the hustle bustle of the city began to waver and the fiery beams of light fell deeper in the sky, Dhaval opened his eyes and beckoned his son over. His voice was barely audible, almost gone forever. 
“In the corner…” he gestured behind Sahil, “I made something for you… in the bag.” 
He closed his eyes again. Sahil turned and walked across to a clothes rail that stood in the corner. Hanging at the front was a solitary garment bag. He lay it across the pale sheets of his father’s bed. Dhaval opened his eyes again to watch his son unzip the bag. As he pulled out the splendid, golden sherwani, Sahil’s eyes were wide and bright. It was a masterpiece. The sherwani itself was a rich shade of blue, embroidered with a striking floral gold pattern. It was captivating. The fabric was so gentle in his hands, almost other worldly. Delicate stitching held cold metal buttons in the shape of golden flowers. A Chinese style collar was shaped with glowing bold embroidery like bright buttery fireworks. Shining sapphire blue Patiala’s flowed from beneath the sherwani, the silk draped in perfect form. Sahil scrambled to change into the treasure his father had crafted. Unsurprisingly, it was the perfect fit. He felt the warmth of his childhood in the sweet tobacco smell of his father’s workshop embedded in the material. 

Dhaval watched his son. His body was harsh and aching. But for the first time in his life he felt a raw, celestial sense of belonging. A truly immaculate feeling of peace. Intense gratitude spread through his body until he couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

Embracing the Light was inspired by Martha’s travels in India. The character of Dhaval was based on an amazing suit maker in Kolkata who had recently died. His story stuck with her as she thought about the incredible knowledge that went with him to the grave and wondered what his final months might have been like.

Martha Harris is a second year BA Media & Communications student specialising in Creative Writing.