ROBIN

Forty feet to the left of our house is a park - a lush green quadrangle laced with peepul and mango trees.

In the mornings, it’s the local joggers’ joint; in the evenings, a strip of the open for a motley mix.

The evening shows often feature my daughter breathing fresh oxygen for an hour and some minutes between school and homework.

The usual accompaniments in these outings are a phone and two headphones.

On a rainy evening last year, she returned from the park with a bold announcement, “Baba, I’ve got a new boyfriend.”

Growing up nonchalantly with boys since the age of 8, this one seemed a little presumptuous.

And aroused some curiosity. “Really? Who’s this great discovery?”

“It isn’t funny, Baba. I’m not going to tell you who he is or what he does. I’m going to ask you to come with me to his house this time tomorrow.”

I quickly suppressed a hiccup.

“Ohhh…”

“Don’t worry, Baba, you’ll love him,” she winked.

I was speechless.

I did what I was asked.

I came home early the next day, slipped into a pair of jeans and a T and said, “Chalo, let’s go.”

My teen companion didn’t enter the park.

Instead, she took me through a short maze of lanes into the next block and stopped in front of an old house with large iron gates.

“Come, Baba. He lives here.”

In a patchy little garden behind the building, sat a man of about 68 in a faded blue shirt and beige shorts.

“Aaah, Trisha! What a delight to see you, my child! I presume this is Mr. Roy. Good evening, Sir. I’m Robin and I live here. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

His flashed a smile that lit up the lawns in fading twilight.

My daughter went up to him and gave him a hug.

Then she turned to me and grinned, “You know Baba, the first time I met him was in the park. He was sitting on the rear bench feeding two doggies. Then it started pouring. The doggies scuttled but he sat in the rain in a kind of trance - no umbrella, no head cover - occasionally looking up at the black skies muttering something to himself.

I thought he’s crazy. Then I walked up to him holding my umbrella out. He looked at me with blurry eyes and just said, come with me. And then we came here. And I met his wonderful ‘house family’…”

Robin smiled fondly at my daughter’s recount.

Then he took us around and introduced me to his ‘house family’… Sheila 64, Ashoka 69, Bachchu 74, and 14 more silver-haired youngsters… all overjoyed at seeing their Trisha.

Their ‘home families’ had long been deleted.

“I’ve come here thrice before, you know,” beamed my teen with an emotion I can’t express in written text.

They chatted and laughed in an incomprehensible hubbub, their peals of mirth ringing like temple bells.

They served us tea and handmade cookies.

And then they sang a song for us, Robin in the lead, stretching out and holding each other’s hands in affectionate inclusion.

The old-age home they lived in came alive that evening in a way I didn’t know or ever wanted to before.

Robin came over to the gates to see us off.

“It was so kind of you to come over, Sir. We’re really, really happy. Please do come again.”

And then, after a moment’s pause, “You’re very blessed, Sir.”

I twined my child’s arm in mine and said, “Yes - that, we both are..."