The dog was asleep in the corner – an aging Alsatian mix who now spent most of her days curled in her bed. Clifton would sometimes see his own sense of loneliness in those sad eyes.
His two-day old stubble brushed against his fingers every time he brought the cup of tea up to his lips. His wife, Patricia, sitting opposite, sipped her tea while scrolling through endless pages of Pinterest. And Instagram. And deleting “useless” messages on WhatsApp. As long as the children were around, they had strictly maintained the rule: No mobiles at the dining table. Now she justified it and argued with him, as if he were depriving her of her rights.
And gradually, he had given in. Receding into a silence that had, over time, become an unnatural bridge between them. His responses to her calls for meals had reduced to grunts. But she went on with her dusting, cleaning, washing, cooking …in a manner determined to hold her sanity, as it were, in a world that had grown silent, irritable, and mildly out of control.
His mind went back to his son’s question the last time he was home: “Dad… what happened to all your friends?” It now sounded more like a statement than a question. An observation without intending to hurt him. But it had. It still did.
And it had made him think: do I have friends? Can I call them friends when I haven’t seen or called them for almost a decade? They were there in a remote corner of his mind, gathering dust like the dry-flower arrangement on the piano. Could I talk to them now, and expect any warmth from them?
He surfed his contacts list. Electricians and plumbers and various service providers apart, there were at least a hundred others – friends of times long past, in India and abroad, friends who had made life so exciting, friends whom he had neglected … and let slip …
He dialled a number: Prasad, in Delhi. He allowed it to ring five times and hung up. Then he called Nagaraj, in Bangalore – who picked on the third ring.
“Hi Nags!” he called out, as if they had met only yesterday.
“Hi Dover!” Clifton smiled. His face brightened up, the sunlight appeared in his eyes. That’s what they would call him. His classmates – his batchmates – from his old favourite song about the white cliffs of Dover. Clifton had shortened to Cliff and then … almost inevitably to Dover.
“Wassup?” continued Nagaraj. “Where have you sprung from?”
“You sound like Juliet!”
“Juliet?” For once Nagaraj was confused.
“My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late!” Clifton quoted, and they had a good, hearty laugh. Clifton was always known to quote ad lib and hilariously out of context.
“Trust you to come up with that! So, how’s life? It would be lovely to catch up!”
Sitting across the table, his wife of 45 years saw the transformation and marvelled. That morose, decadent old man of a few minutes ago was beaming like a teenager.
“Yes,” replied Clifton. “We should meet. What chances of your coming down …?”
“Ummm … about that…”
“Ok, ok …,” Clifton could sense the reluctance – and he knew Nagaraj enough to understand that he had a problem he was reluctant to disclose immediately. He would love to meet up but there were a myriad reasons … “We’ll organise something. I’ll ask Patricia if she’s interested (who was already nodding her head vigorously – anything that can brighten him up so much was most welcome) and, yes, we’ll come around… what? … this is the middle of Feb … a week or so to … ok … we should be in Bangalore by the 25th. And don’t worry. We’ll book a room at the Gymkhana …”
“Oh! That would be great!” There was real excitement there. And anticipation. And relief.
As he ended the call and was just feeling the smile fading off, there was a call back from Prasad’s number. The guy from Delhi.
“Uncle?” The tone was tentative … perhaps looking for identification …
“Yes,” this is Clifton. Who’s this?”
“Oh, Clifton uncle!” the voice responded with some degree of enthusiasm, recognition … “Papa used to talk about you quite often …”
“Used to?” Clifton asked, a sense of foreboding enveloping his demeanour.
“Yes, uncle. It was COVID. Two years now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Clifton found his voice breaking. “I am sorry. Oh God, I should have called earlier. I could have kept in touch with him…” his voice trailed off as he absentmindedly switched off.
He was silent for a long time. Patricia, accustomed to monosyllabic communication interspersed with bouts of silence, watched him as the beams lighted up by Nagaraj were fading away – ever so quickly.
She moved quietly to the bedroom and started packing their stuff for the trip to Bangalore. She couldn’t allow him to drift away – again.
***
Nagaraj rose from his large, upholstered arm chair and walked over to his wife, Saroja. She was ten years younger than him but was struck with acute osteoarthritis. Since she was awake, he propped her up, placed a pillow behind her and switched the TV on for her.
The maid would come in by 9 am to help her with her ablutions and transfer her to the wheel chair for a stroll through the garden – which she had tended so lovingly for about five years… after they returned to Bangalore … before she became immobile. It was her only pastime while he was posted all over the world and she remained behind in Delhi for the sake of the children’s education. There were flowers always, on the dining table, on the mantlepiece and on the veranda – always as bright as her face and her smile. Once safely ensconced in Bangalore, it was probably the TV that had converted her into the proverbial couch potato, or perhaps, it was his long absences which had made them strangers over the years – as the children grew up, and out of the house. It was not a question of being unable to understand the circumstances. It was just a gradual, unconscious succumbing to a situation … and the body following suit … silently…
Having set her at some ease on the bed, he set himself to preparing for Clifton’s visit. He would need to prepare Dover – for Saroja’s condition, for his own hidden fears. But he knew friend required no explanations – only understanding. That’s what friendship is all about, isn’t it? To understand without having to be told? To take action (pre-emptive or whatever) to avoid embarrassing your friend? He felt more excited than he had felt for several years now, since he had retired and decided to settle down in Bangalore – in spite of having been warned against the three As of the city: Asthma, Arthritis and Allergic Rhinitis.
***
The days leading up to their departure passed in a quiet flurry. Clifton noticed Patricia packing not only their clothes, but little thoughtful things – his favourite woollen shawl (Bangalore may be cold at this time of the year), the tin of ginger biscuits he pretended not to like, the pair of walking shoes she insisted he would need. He had not asked her to do any of that. She simply did. And for the first time in months, he watches her with a renewed tenderness – something soft, almost forgotten.
Bangalore welcomed them with its usual confusion but as they approached Nagaraj’s home – one of the few little villas standing on Davis Road – Clifton felt a flutter of nostalgia… and a fear of discovering that time had changed everything beyond repair.
When the door opened, there he was – Nagaraj with that unmistakable sparkle in his eyes. They hugged as brothers, in silence, an understanding that words could not have offered. Over Nagaraj’s shoulder he saw Saroja in her wheelchair and couldn’t stop from flinching – ever so slightly. She looked old beyond her years, but her gentle smile was bright enough to fill the room.
“So, you’re the famous Dover,” she said, her voice warm, teasing. “I’ve been hearing about for ages now, and, the Lord help me, ever since that day you called! And don’t ask me about this morning… he has been like a kid on his birthday!!”
Clifton laughed, a laugh that felt like stretching limbs long stiffened.
As the women fell into easy conversation – something about joint pains and grumpy husbands – Clifton and Nagaraj stepped onto the veranda overlooking the small garden where potted hibiscus nodded in the breeze and bougainvillea filled the compound wall with bursts of colour.
“She loved tending to this,” Nagaraj said quietly, following Clifton’s gaze. “Before… well, before her joints started protesting…” There was no bitterness there, only an acceptance born of love’s long endurance.
“You’ve done well, Nags,” Clifton said softly – a slight tremor of admiration in his voice. Nagaraj looked at him, and saw genuine happiness there over a friend’s success.
“And you?” he asked in reply. “You called. You reached out. You have no idea how much that means.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
“All these trappings of success,” Nagaraj started slowly, “are nothing, Dover. They are great to show off. What we need, really need, is the company of friends.” They both looked towards the garden – two men who had once chased adventure across countries, now standing together, both aware of the years lost between them.
“I’m not in great shape, you know …” Nagaraj continued.
“Hey, I didn’t come for your shape,” Clifton said, with a smile. “I came for you.”
“Idiot,” he said, part laugh, part sob.
.
“Always!”
The went inside the house, sat at the dining table, drank coffee, and talked. Really talked. Not about work or the past or superficial things, but about the scarier stuff – fears, regrets, the ache of loneliness, the stupid ways men convince themselves they don’t need anyone.
***
The evening unfolded like a memory rekindled. Stories spilled out – old pranks, forgotten classmates, teachers they had admired, girls they had embarrassed themselves in front of. The women chuckled, shaking their heads at how little men truly change.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the lights-off time was nearing, Clifton told him about Prasad – how his son had answered the phone.
Nagaraj’s face tightened – in anticipation of the approaching heaviness, the grief.
“COVID,” Clifton continued. “Two years ago.”
They let the silence stretch between them, not as a void but as a shared space – an understanding, a tribute.
“He would have loved this,” Nagaraj finally said.
“Yes,” Clifton agreed. “And I should have called him sooner.”
Nagaraj shook his head gently. “We all should have called each other … sooner.”
The truth settled between them – not in accusation, not in regret, just a reminder that connections fray when neglected.
“You know,” Clifton said after a while, “growing old is a strange thing. Everything seems to slow down, the world seems quieter …”
Nagaraj chuckled. “You always get poetic after 9 p.m.”
But both understood: the villain is not just aging. Isolation is. And friendship – simple, steady, forgiving, accommodating – was the antidote.
***
Later that night, as Clifton and Patricia settled into their room at the Gymkhana, he took her hand unexpectedly. It startled her.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For packing the biscuits,” he grinned, though his eyes glistened. “And for pushing me to come. And for… for everything… all these years…
She watched him with a tenderness that age had only sharpened.
“You looked alive again today,” she whispered. “That’s all I wanted.”
Clifton closed his eyes. For years, they had lived like parallel lines – near but never touching. Today, the space between them had warmed, softened.
Maybe companionship wasn’t about grand gestures. Maybe it was about presence—showing up even when words had run dry.
***
The next morning, they all meet in the garden. Saroja was wheeled out, wrapped in a shawl. The sun warmed her face. She tilted her head slightly, as though greeting the flowers she had once tended.
Clifton watched the scene with a swelling in his chest. If age had stolen much of their mobility, energy, entire decades emotional and physical distances from each of them, it had returned something precious – clarity.
In the end, it wasn’t the achievements, the houses, the savings, or the successes that anchored a person. It was people. The ones who remembered your first heartbreak, your worst haircut, your silliest jokes. The ones who called you by names no one else would dare use. The ones who stayed, with you, in whatever way they could.
This – carefree laughter, these shared silences, these gently revived ties – was what made growing old more meaningful. Fellowship isn’t merely a balm, it’s often a lifeline.
And, he thought as he watched Patricia lean in to adjust Saroja’s shawl, perhaps it was not too late to rebuild all the bridges time had strained.
It’s never too late.
And there were so many more on the contacts list that he had to get in touch with.
