A Strange Man

I had heard he was a strange man, but now, as he approached me, I was really frightened for the expression on his face was demoniac. For a moment I had no control over myself and I felt myself trembling. I had a feeling that my face was drained of all blood. I retreated into the corner, praying and holding my breath and wishing something would distract his progress towards me. For a while, I had the feeling of a fly caught in a huge cobweb and struggling to free itself. All the stories of his strange behavior began to knock at my memory in an unintelligible, clamorous way. I had no time to sort out my emotions or reactions. Suddenly. I found him peering and breathing into my face. With great difficulty I controlled myself from screaming; but not for the life of me could I remove my gaze from his face.

His hand came forward to hold my wrist and like a sleepwalker, I followed him to the seat where he wanted me to sit. Gradually, I realized that his touch was soft and gentle and contrasted sharply with the look on his face. I looked more intelligently at him; my thoughts began to sort themselves out and I began to return to normal. He was saying something to me. He repeated it and now I could understand. He was asking my name. I mumbled a reply. We sat at a table. He placed an order for some tea and I found myself relaxing.

The first day we met he only explained that he had been watching me return from work every day and had wanted to talk to me. So today he had met me on my return journey. But, surprisingly, he didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he began to talk of himself. He was a sailor and had traveled a great deal and I listened to his varied experiences.

After that, we often met in the evenings and often had a cup of tea at the wayside restaurant. He was a man in his late fifties and though he looked grim with all his weather-worn scars, and was a huge hulk of a man, he was always gentle in his behavior towards me. As the days passed, I began to get used to his terrifying looks and feel comfortable in his company. He gradually unfolded his past to me. He had lost his parents at an early age and had grown up without any guidance. He became a deck-hand and soon graduated from one job to another. During one of his shore visits he fell in love and got married.

His wife had been a gentlewoman and now he longed for a shore job, but with hardly any qualifications he found it difficult to get a job suited to his age and temperament. Years passed. Their little daughter was growing up into an intelligent teenager. And then tragedy struck! On return from one of his trips, he learned that their little shack had been burnt in a fire. His wife and daughter had both been caught in it. Since then he had been in this condition of grief. He had never gone back to sea and had roamed the streets like a mad man, mourning his loss. Many stories had been floated about him. His stern appearance in no way mitigated the effect of those stories.

Where did I come into his story? I looked very much like his daughter. So our friendship grew and one day I took him home. He followed me like a pet dog and I introduced hints to my mother. Ever since then he has been a constant visitor to our house and the agony in his looks is being replaced by a new warmth and affection.