By Adharshila Chatterjee
1
You hesitate, your finger poised inches from the doorbell. You hesitate, not out of a fear of rejection – that you can deal with (your lips curl into a dry smile at the thought) – no, you hesitate, doubting the impact that this sudden intrusion may have on her life. Oh! You wince. How involuntarily that word leapt to your mind. ‘Intrusion’ – so unwelcome, so blatantly impersonal a word. Yet you acknowledge the truth of it. What are you but an intrusion in her life now? What right do you have to be anything else?
Still, you are here. You are here on this warm May morning, standing on her doorstep, finger poised inches from the doorbell. You had to come. You had to know, had to assure yourself that all those years of silent misery have not gone in vain. When you left eleven years ago, you promised yourself this one visit. And you have come (“How clichéd!” you mock that foolish eleven-years-younger self). You take a deep breath…
2
Her face is unchanged. Almost. Except for those faint, hardly perceptible lines on her forehead, those interminably long years have left little mark on her face.
You look at her over the rim of your teacup as you take an obligatory sip. She catches your eyes and smiles. God! That smile – that little dimple on her chin, the way her eyes crinkle in the corners – you remember that smile so well. And it hurts. Yes, it hurts. You thought you could forgive fate, the inimical fate that had ripped you apart eleven years ago, if only you found her happy – if you found that the burden of regret has been only your share. And there she sits, talking about her life, her husband (presently away on an office tour), her two kids (attending a summer camp), her job (in a leading advertisement agency). She sits, at ease, surrounded by photographs that put up the usual show of a model family life. She sits across the coffee table, two feet away from you… and several light years apart. And it hurts, oh! It hurts, hurts, hurts to see her so placidly content – a quiet acceptance, that often passes for happiness, plainly visible in her comfortable, inconsequent chatter.
You had expected her shock, her anger, her accusations. Perhaps you deserved them all. She has shown none. Her composed surprise has thrown you off guard. Her greeting, as if to an acquaintance one knew long back and never thought of again, is still raw in your mind. Your hands shake as you put the cup down.
“Why did you not marry? Never tempted out of bachelorhood?” she asks with easy familiarity. It slashes like a whip across your numb mind. You return a mechanical answer, a smile…and you bleed.
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of this torture and you can take it no more. You rise, pause for a moment, and then hold out your hand. She takes it in her own… a casual touch. And desire flames up, so suddenly that it startles you, a sharp, knife-like desire. A need, pathetic in its hopelessness, gnaws at you. You snatch your hand away. The pain is blinding. You stumble towards the door.
3
She stands behind the blinds. She watches him as he stands, leaning against his car. She watches him until, after several long-drawn minutes, he leaves. The car speeds down the road and disappears around the bend. And he is gone. A waft of wind sneaks in; its impact feels like an unforgiving hammer. She sighs and turns from the window.
She stares blindly at the furniture and absently traces her fingers across dusty photo frames - the left-overs of a life that ended five years ago when her husband had divorced her. Truth be told, that had not come as a surprise to her. Nor did it bring much regret. The hardest blow came when she lost the custody of her two daughters. Visiting rights - a mirthless laugh escapes her. That’s her share in their daughters' lives. And those smiling faces in the pictures rend her wounds every time she looks at them. Yet she fondles them today, grateful of the illusion of happiness they create.
She knew, had always known, that he would come one day. She has survived on that one conviction for eleven years. Eleven years of utter nothingness. She had not raged, not argued, not even cried when he had bid her goodbye – somewhere within she had known there was no alternative. She had held her tears back and accepted the man of her father’s choice in that compromise called marriage. Those unshed tears had hardened like concrete hrough the years. And there was nothing left in her to give. No wonder her marriage has failed. But things could have been different – so very different.
She stands tracing meaningless patterns on the photo frames. He came, he came – her mind reiterates incoherently. “Stop it”, she mumbles to herself. She hopes she has carried it off. One could never tell, never deduce his thoughts just by looking at his face… She smiles, glad to have spared him the pain of knowing what price life has wrung from her; a price that has challenged her sanity, demanded her very existence - all for a decision that was not her own.
She raises her hand to her cheek. She can feel the warmth, the firm pressure of his fingers against hers. She closes her eyes, and she can still see the helpless fire flare up in his eyes. She inhales deeply. His smell lingers in the room – a warm blend of cologne, ink and nicotine. She sinks down upon the couch, marvelling at how conveniently things have worked out. Thankful for the cool dimness of the room that has shaded the scars etched in her eyes. Or he might have seen the stark deadness in her face. And he would have found out the secret she has carried with her for eleven years – that woman in her, the woman he once loved, is dead.
4
You stagger out of the door. You lean against your car and take deep, steadying breaths. A numbing listlessness spreads through your limbs. A potent wretchedness, more punishing than eleven years of suffering, is killing you. You came hoping to see her comfortable in her life. You have found her so. But you found her so because she intended that you do. Not one word, not one smile out of place; a perfect pose for a perfect life. A sham front, but what lay beyond? Oh God! What have you done to her? You are too scared, too much of a coward to find out. And it kills you. There, that moment, you die a death more painful than life could ever be. You die, die, die… and the balmy May air plays with stray leaves at your feet.
