A deep melancholy steals over me whenever I see this man. I'm not sure what it is that saddens me is it the sight of him or of the blue of his blazer, now faded and quite lackluster?

I love the colour blue. When I was a child I made all my pictures in blue. I would lie on my cot in the evening and gaze at the blue sky for hours. I possessed a blue coat too; and it was my favourite. Now when I look at his coat, I feel a pang for that blue which is no more. The colours I loved once have all vanished. The sight of them doesn't make me happy either. The clear blue sky and the white clouds swinging from it no longer urge me to break into song.

I remember a time, perhaps very long ago, when the wind tangling in the trees, rivulets breaking the silence of the forest, clouds floating across the sky, the chirping birds all of these would make me want to sing with abandon.

Today a strange desolation settles over me when I see his patched coat and his inanimate eyes.

One day I stopped him and asked, 'Where is it that you go every day? You are old now; you should stay at home.' He stopped, but did not seem to understand what I had said.

'Is there anything I can do for you?'

'Well, there are many things I need done. But what is it that you can do?'

'I can repair broken-down machines.'

'What kind of machines?'

'All kinds. Sewing machines. Gramophones. Electric fans. I can mend anything in the house that's not working.'

I gave him my address and asked him to come by.

He passed my house every morning but never came in. I called out to him one day. He came inside and asked, 'Is there anything I can do for you?' I brought out the gramophone and placed it in front of him. He sat down on the steps, opened his leather satchel and asked, 'Well, what's wrong with this?'

'There's nothing the matter with it, yet, but I'd like you to clean it for me anyway, and oil all the parts too.'

He opened the satchel and looked at me without a word.

'Why, what's wrong?' I asked.

'There's noting in my bag.' Having said this, he closed the bag and looked like he wanted to go.

'If I get you some oil and a rag, will you clean this for me?'

He sat down on the veranda steps again. I got him a rag and some oil. He began to clean the gramophone. He asked me for a screwdriver. He opened all the screws and took the machine apart. He oiled all the parts and then said, 'Keep all these away carefully for the time being. I'll finish the work tomorrow.'

I did what he told me to. But he did not return for several days. One day I hailed him again.

He came to the verandah and asked, 'Is there anything I can do for you?'

'A gramophone's been taken apart. It needs to be put together again.'

He sat down on the veranda steps. I put all the gramophone parts before him. He opened his empty leather bag and looked at me. I went inside and fetched him the screwdriver. After working with the screwdriver for a long time, he said, 'I can't do this.'

He fixed his listless brown eyes on me. They were obscured with tears, or so it seemed to me.

'It's not your fault if you can't mend this. Why do you take it to heart?' he did not wipe his eyes. A dirty film of moisture still clouded them. 'I've forgotten how to repair things. But maybe I'll remember if I work at it long enough.'

He picked up the screwdriver and worked with it again.

'Keep this screwdriver in your bag. I'll put these parts away carefully. You can come and work at them every day.'

He put the screwdriver in his satchel and went away.

One day he was sitting in the verandah, working on the machine as usual, when a man came up to me and said, 'Why did you let this man come in? He doesn't know how to repair anything.'

Then he turned to the man in the blue coat and said, 'Come with me now. You've ruined the gramophone already.'

The man in the blue coat stretched his legs out. He was obviously reluctant to go.

'If you won't come willingly…' the younger man grasped his hand and dragged him to his feet. He wrenched the screwdriver away from his clenched fist and put it near the gramophone. The man in the blue jacket was still unwilling to leave. The younger man lifted him up in his arms. The man in the blue coat caught hold of the other's shirt with one hand and pulled off his glasses with the other. 'Watch it! Make sure you don't break my glasses…' Then the younger man said to me, 'Well, I'll go now. I'm taking him with me, too.'

I could see that. I said, 'But why do you treat the poor fellow like that? He works here every day; how does he bother you?'

'I am his son!'

The glasses dangled from the father's hand but he still clung to his son's shirt with the other.

'Now don't you ever step out of the house again without telling me!'

'I will.'

'No, you won't. I'll take away your bag and your blue jacket.'

The father returned the glasses. He fumbled with the buttons on his son's shirt and muttered, 'Okay, I won't step out of the house again without telling you.'

The son put him down. The father picked up his bag and looked at me. The film of muddy moisture had covered his eyes again.

He went away with his son. I watched his blue coat fading far into the distance. A drifting patch of dismal sky, the sight of which no longer filled me with rapture.

Vijay Chauhan (1931-1988) lived in Delhi and United States, and wrote two notable collections of short stories. S. Rai is an academic/translator.