The Englishman

He woke up when the first rays of the fine English sun filtered through the stained glass windows. The large stained glass image of "Madonna of the rocks" was imprinted on this fine glass, imported from Southern France, tracing its origins to the gothic era. He glanced at the large bracket mantel clock that was quite the only wall-hanging in his room. It was a little over six in the morning. It made him proud to glance at the same clock that an Earl or a Prince might have glanced at once. He had always liked to be petulant and precise about his house, something that his friends said ran in the blood of Englishmen. He got up from the four poster chest-nut bed and headed for the rest room.

The figure was one of an old man, a frail figure of sixty-four. His hair was white and longish, and he sported white stubble, something that he used to hide the sagging skin. He looked amazingly different now, perhaps not even his father would recognise him if he were to see him now. His face was locked in a careless smile as he splashed water on his face.

Like the proverbial Englishman, he spoke with all his body. He walked down the road, complete with the Saxony Jacket, Moleskin pants, felt hat and stirling silver walking stick. Not that he needed the walking stick, but since the time he had retired from the Bank of England two years earlier, he had always felt like carrying one. And in England, each man is an island, doing what he likes and consulting only his own convenience. He almost walked in the opposite direction out of practice. After all, he had taken the same route for almost forty years, from his house to the gates of Sir John Soane's massive curtain walls that enclosed the three-acre island. The island that was home to the oldest bank in the world, the Bank of England. He chuckled and changed directions. Five minutes later, he entered the church where he had been attending morning service since time immemorial.

As usual, he was one of the earliest. He went to the pew, as if to take an up close and personal look at the lord. He then went back to his seat, the seventh seat on the fifth row, a place he had been occupying since, well, time immemorial. He was well versed in the 'litugry' or method of prayer. The prayer started, and ended as usual. His prayer was intent, never wandering from the sermons that the preacher delivered. He prayed for his family who were now scattered, and he prayed for himself.

Just as he was about to leave the church, the unthinkable happened. A woman, perhaps fifty years old came up to him.

She said, "I was seated next to you in the church, if you had noticed". He had not. Never does an Englishman let another meet his eye. It was almost an affront to see another in the eye when introductions had not been made. Shocked, he said "Err.."

"Never mind", she continued. He was shocked, shocked that a ritual that he had carried out for years had been shattered. In his mind's eye, he said, 'How on earth can people talk to those who have not been introduced to each other? And that too in such a fine, polished country like mine!'

"I saw you praying. You were so deep in your prayers that perhaps you did not notice me." In his mind he thought "What do you want!"

"Just curious, you know". An English man is not curious, neither does he show his unbecoming emotions. Silently, he looked on, waiting for his 'offender' to finish.

"Do you belong to the church of England?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Thats wonderful. How do you find my country?"

The question echoed from the walls of the church, and from the deepest echelons of his heart. Rajith 'Ron' Ramasekharan's world had just been shattered.

'...my country' mutterd the Englishman as he walked back.