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

A beautiful stick made of local wood, in the famous hill station of Matheran, with its salubrious 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 walking stick and knight-companions-in-arms found their way into Bombay’s libraries, as it was then called, the restaurants of yesteryear, parks and places of worship. Dependence and loyalty were total, only until death parted them, from dust to dust.

The family relocated 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’s what one would have thought. It was relegated to the corners of the manor’s attic, left to linger in oblivion. Oblivion, 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 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 habitual nuisance by the owner of the house, who considered it a nuisance for her daily cleaning tasks. It would seem that the staff could reach different areas of the mansion, 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 in the house, like a loyal Dalmatian, spots and all.

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

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

‘Click’, ‘Click’, -the staff, he moved away, keeping the spirits of many generations in his wake.