And the ‘Will' goes to...

HE did not have wrinkles but fine furrows of experience. The pruned skin on his fingers evidently proclaimed his 80-years-of-hands-on-and-in-the-soil approach to work. The silver streaks of wisdom on his head filed him out among his grey-haired geriatric friends and kin. Even up to this age, he never had to worry about cataract; having been a man of ultimate vision all the time. 

When the news of his untimely death flitted around the pink newspapers and corridors of corporate power mansions; even his arch rival gasped for a moment. Diseases, recessions, government upheavals, tough acquisitions, climate change or the possibility of aliens in space; nothing had so far been possible to nudge him to the other side of the cliff of age and about-time-farewell that he had been standing atop for last many years. Everyone had thought this inveterate business czar will live on without a scratch and will hit a century with his well-played innings.

But then nothing lasts forever. Not even a stubborn heartbeat. He had died peacefully, without a shriek or a shudder.

The day after his funeral, his family was corralled by the family lawyer, a good friend of his who had always offered sacred counsel and secrecy to all his dilemmas and decisions.

Probably the reason the family members felt a different chord from the moment he opened the much-anticipated Will. Someone was showered with a secret -but-fat account of ingenious investments, while someone else was bequeathed the long-adored family heritage house, as another one almost ran into a fit of happiness with the ownership of newly acquired foreign plants and so on.

But the second eldest son had only waited, disillusioned and tired. He had seen how his father had taken good care of the eldest son with all the wealth and powers ascribed now as a CEO. He had also watched in bewilderment as the youngest one screamed with delight at all the moolah sprinkled on him in the cozy chair of a CFO. The scene was quickly morphing into a Christmas day morning, all melancholy and mourning evaporating as every present left by his father got unwrapped one by one.

He was not surprised or hopeful at all though. He was only wondering as to why exactly he was not left anything substantial so far. No money, no company, no farmhouse, nothing? Because he was the always-arguing-and-rebellious son? Or because he handled the much-orphaned side of IT for the empire? The answer now, lay buried impishly.

He sighed and waited for his turn, if at all, there was one. It was there nevertheless. The family lawyer walked towards him as soon as everyone got busy admiring their gifts. He handed him over a brown-paper sheathed parcel. It had no ribbons to tempt, metaphorically or otherwise. The son pored his indifferent eyes into the lawyer's, "Should I even bother opening this?"

The lawyer reciprocated with a crimson flare, all set to pass on some contagious hope, "Yes, without blinking an eyelid. This one was specially for you. Hand-written by him. My only advice is - open and read this somewhere in private."

The son's forehead showed more signs of confusion-whipped-with-suspense. "Why? Is it something very confidential?"

 

The lawyer shrugged mischievously, "How would I know? But yes, it's going to take some time. You better switch off your phone for a while now."

As the lawyer galumphed back, the son retreated to his father's room intuitively. He sat on the bed where he had breathed his last and for some reason his fingers trembled as he ripped the parcel open.

It was a Diary!