All's well that ends well

He had intended to save the 23 year old scotch which lay beside him for a special occasion. It struck him that the vintage scotch and his perennially resentful grandson shared the same age. The scotch although, he thought, had aged gracefully. He lay stiff on his bed, even as the unforgiving rainfall thumped against the roof, bringing back discerning memories of his incoherent childhood, when the rain signified the arrival of joy.He was regretful it didn't mean the same to him any longer. He grimaced at the thought of how he always found that banyan tree by the countryside fascinating and found himself hours poignantly transfixed upon its rustic mythical beauty, which to him hadn't changed amidst in an otherwise rapidly changing world. The innocence of childhood had an uncanny tranquil power, he thought.He wondered, after 75 years, if it still stood by the rocks. Switching the lamp by the bedside he recollected how he always managed to retain this magical juvenile nature through his entire existence, amusing himself of the little nuances of life which always kept him kicking through the hard times. He recollected his days of learning in school, deriding farcical pranks on mates,being scared of elders,eventually breaking into gullible adolescence,and no longer being scared of elders, having the feeling of being able to conquer the world fumed by the youth in him. Ever since he remembered he always wanted to be a writer, one that wrote for artistic satisfaction more than intellectual. Looking back at his life, lying on the bed he felt vindicated. He also recollected how at the turn of 21 his parents had arranged his marriage to the 4Th daughter of a retired banker. He remembered vividly when he'd first seen her draped in a bright green Saree in his fiance he'd assessed her as 'beddable', worth spending a lifetime with. In course of time, he fell in love with her, her outright bright understanding of life in general having to contribute more than anything else to that. As the rain outside subsided, he could recollect those small eventful moments he had shared with his wife, laughing, talking. It brought more than a tear to his eye, of joy or of sadness, he was not sure. He remembered the time when he had 'danced the funky chicken' with her at their 25th anniversary, as his children had looked on in admiration. He reached out for the scotch beside him, poured it carefully into a glass generously. Over the years , he had developed an insatiable affection for scotch, a passion he'd picked up while working as a columnist with The Hindu, when he opportuned to brush shoulders with the elite; the condescending Delhite and the ostensibly sincere Mumbaikar. Times had changed drastically, he pondered, more in a manner of introspection than as being judgemental of others. He had slowly begun to realize that perhaps one of the reasons his grandson and him didn't meet eye to eye on several issues was perhaps because it was a universal truth that the old always found the young scornful, and these are some conundrums of life that are constant for any period. Or even the truth that when you look back at your life, you are always overridden with a feeling of having underachieved, of having been unfortunate, of having received the flak inordinately. He began to realize that, though as he lay still on his bed, that the memories left with him on that day at the age of 84, were those of cheer,of mirth, of laughter, of a celebration of life, that seemed complete, uncannily satisfying. Tears began rolling down his eyes, of joy, this he was sure of. And just what his grandson's favourite song had endorsed, 'he knew when his time would come he would be prepared for it. He drank, and said a prayer for it' and breathed his last.