'The white lie'

Both of us sat staring at the opposite walls of the hallway avoiding eye contact at any cost. The walls, painted a dull grey, mirrored the atmosphere of the dim lit hospital. The darker hue on the bottom half of the wall shone brighter at one spot due to a flikkering light near the door with a red OPD sticker. My eyes scanned the far end of the long hallway for any sign of the Orthopaedician we were waiting for. The nurse in the X-Ray room had casually mentioned that he would walk in precisely at seven every evening and the big round clock near the pharmacy showed two minutes to seven.

Pushing aside all the chaotic voices from my mind, I decided to talk to my dad sitting on the black iron chair opposite to me, staring intently at the newspaper stand as if he was using all his unavailable psychic powers to read the magazines from twenty feet away.

"Pops... How do we handle this one?" I asked with a straight face.

Of all the escape techniques my dad so poorly employs, he chose his worst one, 'Selective hearing'. He continued his impassive stare with a poker face he used while reading the final pages of thrilling novel.

"C'mon Pops... This is not working. I know you heard me..." I said, this time loud enough for the nurse passing by to give me a judgemental look and a 'finger on the lips' pose.

"What do you want me to say? You should have been more careful. Now, we are back in the same spot we were the last time" he said, rubbing his forehead.

Everytime my mother went on her two day trip to Mangalore, which would practically be every month, both our creative selves railroaded the barrier of sensibility and decided to unleash the raw competitiveness within us to perform challenges which otherwise, would be brushed aside as results of hyper adrenaline rush. Though we managed to scrape through unhurt and feeling great about ourselves most of the times, there were rough stincts too. One such incident had occurred about a year ago when we had decided to organise a log chopping challenge. In my spirit to outperform my dad, who was firing on all cylinders on that day, I had ended up slitting half of my foot through my toes, ending up with ten stitches and a long and ugly scar which had to be grafted later on. Though dealing with the pain was hard, losing to my dad was the toughest. The worst part to handle was his ability to not brag about boasting a better head to head record against me. The air of confidence with which he walked into every challenge, with a smile on his face, rubbed salt on my wounds. The times I managed to beat him, which would be all dramatic in itself, he would make sure to celebrate every one of my victories with a splendid treat and a gift, adding another dimension to our so called 'rivalry'. Our own version of the 'Strongman Challenge', a unique game of strength, courage and raw power was all it took to deepen our bond.

"Hmm... Looks like a dislocation" remarked the doctor examining my shoulder. 

"What happened? Can you explain it to me in detail?" was the following question to which the answer was tricky. But, as it's said, 'Never lie to your doctor and your lawyer', we had to spit out the truth. We explained to him about how we had organised a weightlifting competition this time and my talented, six footer Herculean dad was on the verge of beating me at it. In a desperate attempt to outdo his tally of superior scores, I had punched above my weight and ended up losing my balance on the final jerk, tilting the bar to one side, thus, exerting extra pressure on my right shoulder and dislocating it. The doctor gave a look of astonishment. He took a couple of minutes to fathom our story and gave us a long stare as if assessing the sanity of the father-son duo he was treating. We gave him an embarrassed smile in response.

That stare was very familiar. We had faced similar ones during our honeycomb tapping, brick breaking and jeep pulling competitions when circumstances had conspired against us, forcing us towards the doorsteps of different doctors for help. We were seasoned campaigners of the game now and our anti-stare smile, that we had developed over the years, was evidence to that fact.

This was however the easy bit. The tougher challenge, was to alight the Airavat Club Class bus at nine thirty the same night. Mom was one her way back. 

"Pops... Shall I board the next bus to Bangalore?" I asked, on the way back from the doctor, who prescribed some painkillers and ample rest after managing to fix my shoulder back into the socket.

"Aah... Planning to take off so soon partner... that too, leaving me to explain the mess? Smart move, but, not happening sunny boy..." was the response with a laugh. "Above all, you require care now. Don't worry, we'll handle it" he said taking the right towards the bus stand.

Dad's better half was a tough nut to crack. Being the analytical self she was, it was a matter of seconds before we would get caught if we didn't prepare our answers well. Another fact to consider was that she was completely aware of our ability to come up with innovative types of mischiefs and had picked up the first scent of trouble the previous time itself. However, our base had stood strong and fended off all attacks with convincing answers, settling the matter. Though safe for then, we were miles away from a home run. This time, it was a trickier emergency and desperate times demanded desperate and improvised measures. Having reached the bus stand half an hour before the arrival of the bus, we started plotting for the most convincing explaination. 

"Shall we say that I slipped in the bathroom?" was my first proposal which wasn't even considered. He gave a bored look that explained how mundane he thought my suggestion was. Apart from that, Pops even gave me a lecture on understanding the gravity of the situation and responding according. Feeling low after my failed first attempt, I scratched my head harder for better options. The brain storming began and reasons came flying out like pamplets from a printing press. It is on that day I realised as to how bad a liar my father was. Though not a saint, he would always advice me to refrain from lying in the smallest and most inconsequential contexts. He would often say, "Lie is a quicksand. The more you to try to wriggle out from one, the deeper it pulls you into lying again."

But, this time we were in soup.Time was running out. As fate would have it, there we were, on a starry night, sitting in an empty bus stand, planning to cover up something that would be disclosed eventually. After eliminating all the obvious choices one by one, we finally came up with a distorted version of the original story that would fit the situation and also stabilize the barrage of the initial onslaught, until her motherly instincts took over. Our intension was never to deceive her with a fib, but to break it to her slowly, in a time condusive for an explaination of such magnitude.

Thrilled with our temporary satisfying solution to the problem at hand, dad received her at the stroke of ten, the timing, evidence of Airavat being a government run transport service. He slowly walked her to the car signalling me to get ready for the final takedown. It was showtime. My heart raced at breakneck pace, considering the consequences of a misstep. Following Rancho's advice from 3 Idiots, I repeated mumbled "All is well" before facing my mother. 

As soon as they approached the car, I stepped out to welcome her. At first glance, I couldn't help but notice her eyes pop out of their sockets at the sight of my right hand comfortably resting in a sling. She had questions written all over her face. Dad stood next to her with an expression of unrelatedness with the whole situation. She panicked. He responded by holding her hand. Her eyebrows immediately relaxed. It was a great display of synchronisation in an understanding relationship. Having lived the majority of their adult life in the company of one other, it was evident that they knew the other by every cell present in their bodies. 

For now, the first obstacle had been crossed. It was time for the answers. After the initial bombardment of questions filled with concern, regarding the pain and discomfort, she directed the much feared but expected question straight at Pops. "How did this happen?" she asked with a hint of worry in her voice.

I let out a sigh of relief at dodging the bullet. But for Pops, it was a direct headshot. I turned to him with a smile involuntarily escaping my lips. I could see the colour drain out off his face, even in the pitch dark of the night. The worry lines on his broad  forehead resembled the wrinkled skin of a hundred year old. I waited patiently for the planned and prepared answer to unravel itself. All the deliberations and hardwork was done. It was only a matter of final deliverance now. 

To my surprise, the spontaneous response was, "Ahh...he slipped in the bathroom...!!!"