And,
then was on an online platform, my second short story was published. This morning, I received an email, saying
that my story was shortlisted for the next round of screening. Well, I wish to share the story with you all
and of course I look forward for all your comments please.
The theme - Pick up any
movie from Bollywood and tell us what happened after the end!
And I chose the movie,
Talaash…….
She finished the last sip
of her coffee that had turned entirely cold and almost tasteless looking at the
framed photograph sitting atop the table, Suresh and herself. Suresh, young, back then, in his crisp Khaki
uniform, clean-shaven and trimmed mustache, he looked handsome. And few more tacked to the walls. Whenever she looked at them, she was reminded
of the fact that despite her best efforts, nothing had turned out the way she
had wished.
Leaning back to the
chair, she wondered, how quickly years had passed. Memories flooded. Life, for them was a fairy tale, years ago,
until that fateful accident. After
losing their six-year-old Kishan, it had taken for them four years to gain
semblance. But with Sahil’s birth, life
had started afresh, for her. But for
him, his suppressed guilt had overpowered him.
It was on one moonless night when she saw Suresh staring at something,
his gaze transfixed, something weird and something inexplicable, she had sensed
and that was the start of it. She had kept a close watch and had noticed his
strange traits. He had changed in many ways; he either would be lost in
thoughts or would be tensed and worried.
He never was at peace. His
conversation had come to the bare minimum.
From the charming, suave man she had fallen in love with, Suresh had
changed into a remote stranger.
‘He seems to be disturbed
all the time,’ one of his colleagues had said.
‘He needs rest,’ some had remarked.
‘Mama, papa behaves weird
sometimes. Is he ok?’ Sahil had questioned.
And above all, she had seen, he had sprung up in a bolt from his bed,
grabbing his phone, at an odd hour of one night. He had answered a call and had stormed off
immediately. Shell shocked, she had sat
in the dark, his cell phone had neither rung nor had anyone spoken on the other
end. That was precisely when she had
realized that something had seriously gone wrong. He had relapsed into the same delusions.
‘It’s a clear indication
of visual, auditory and olfactory hallucinations. He is also suffering from paranoid and
bizarre delusions,’ the doctor had concluded.
‘Quiet difficult. It may take a day or a month. It could take years, or worse, it might never
end. And in some cases, it may lead to
sui-caedere,’ he had said when she had questioned, ‘curable?’
The much-wrinkled,
too-often-read letter, Kishan’s last letter had been in his closet for
years. She had seen him, reading and
re-reading that letter, many a times. He
had wept, running his fingers on those letters; he had clutched it to his
heart. His guilt had got the better of
him, she had thought, but she was wrong.
‘Better, you leave him
here, we will take care,’ the doctor had suggested, but she hadn’t agreed. She had believed in miracles. All he needs was love, care and attention,
she had argued with hope. She had played her part with all her might. Patience and perseverance, would make things
work, she was confident. Days rolled
into months and months into years. But
nothing positive had turned up. Instead, another uncertainty had knocked her
door. He had begun to get lost in
mid-sentence. The amusement soon turned
to horror when the condition was diagnosed as Alzheimers. Turning from bad to worse, there wasn’t any hope of
recovery. With his condition
deteriorating, managing him had become impossible for her single-handedly and
she had to leave him in the hospital.
She refrained from informing Sahil, as he had settled with a good job in
London.
‘Find a girl and get
married,’ she had said.
‘I have found one, will
be visiting you’ll very soon. Love
you’ll,’ he had said.
A loud gust of wind
coming from the large open windows, hurled her back to the present. Waiting for the sun to show up, she sat by
the window. Her lips stretched into a
faint smile with the sight of the first rays of sun peaking over the horizon,
soft light illuminating the surroundings.
Silence hung in the air and in her being as well. There was an unusual peace in her. The uncountable confusing questions weren’t
there this morning. Walking past the turbulences, mentally and emotionally, she
had come to a decision.
She looked at the
clock. Time showed 4.30 a.m. One more hour she could spend sitting here in
her favourite place, recalling her past, reliving those happy moments one last
time before she heads on with her morning work.
All she had on her agenda that morning was to cook a special breakfast
for the two of them and then an elaborated pooja,
with special offerings, being her thirty-third wedding anniversary.
The sun crawled over
turning the dark sky into hues of orange.
Letting out a big sigh, she rose from the chair and made her way to the
kitchen. Today, the porridge had all his
favourite vegetables along with cashew nuts and ghee. Going as per her plans, she had shopped all
the vegetables and the groceries the previous evening. And as a wedding gift, she had purchased him
a white shirt. The boxes sat on the
dining table to be filled and the bag was kept ready for easy access. She had cooked his favourite sweet rosogullas too the previous evening, two
for him and two for her.
Now, with the time
ticking 5.30, she walked to the kitchen. Like any other days, chanting the
names of gods, she took out the vegetables from the refrigerator and washed
them before chopping. Adding in all the
ingredients she closed the lid of the pressure cooker. With the aroma filling in the air, a sort of
happiness surged in her heart. The
cooking would take some time, in the mean time; she filled the sweets and
little of pickle in two small boxes. ‘One spoon, one plate, a few napkins,’ she
reminded herself to be packed.
‘That’s five. Should be
enough,’ counting the whistles she rushed to the kitchen and switched off the
stove. Suresh always loved it, just
right, soft though, grainy and little spicy.
‘Thank god, the porridge wouldn’t be mushy,’ she said, to herself as she
hurried for her bath. And then followed
her elaborated pooja. ‘My 108
japa beads string too, and one family photo,’ she remembered to be packed
as she walked out of the pooja room.
The porridge with mild
spice and with the grains cooked just right, it had turned out to be the best.
She filled it in the box. Fighting back the tears, that had just started
forming, she packed the bag, placing the three boxes, a plate and a spoon, two
bowls, the framed photograph and the japa
bead string.
Going through her entire
closet twice, she finally chose a cream Kanjeevaram sari with thin brown
border. She had Suresh’s appreciative
look when she had worn it, the previous year, on the same day. He had gifted it to her. Exactly one year ago, she recollected, she
had worn it for the first time and today it was for the second time, rather the last time, she corrected her
thoughts. Tying her hair into a neat bun
at the nape of her neck, she placed the jasmine string, pinning it with a few
hairpins. She adjusted the red coin-sized
orb of kumkum on her forehead and
pulled out the draw of her dressing table for the sindoor. Appling a small
pinch of it, on the hairline, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Perfect’ he had always said and this was his
favourite look of hers, in the past, not so long ago. Even at fifty-five, with those graying hair
adding on to her elegancy, she looked pretty.
Up until now, she was
strong and determined, going by her plans. But was it right? A conflict set in
for the umpteenth time. Inevitable, she
reasoned herself. Without any hope for
recovery, dragging on with the days wasn’t a solution. She had been sensing his pain. He couldn’t
take it anymore. It had to end. ‘No, I
shouldn’t step back.’ she reassured herself.
The driver was supposed
to have come by now. She walked to the
balcony of her apartment on the second floor, waiting for her phone to
ring. Settling on her chair, she
waited. Her phone rang.
The driver reached. She walked out of the house and before
locking the door, she took one last look of her house. Descending the stairs, as she reached the
main entrance of the building the car pulled up. Placing the bags carefully
beside her on the back seat, she nodded to the driver. She leaned back and closed her eyes as the
car picked up the speed, swallowing the overwhelming emotions of pain and
guilt.
Screech! The car came to
a stop. Before 7.00 she had planned and there she had reached. She got down and as she walked along the path,
her heart pounded. Collecting her
courage, composing her calm, she maintained a stoic appearance and walked into
the room, closing the door behind her.
Week, unshaven and
unkempt Suresh lay on his bed. Once so self-made, lively and energetic, now
lean and bony, eyes lost in some far-off, unknown realm, lying helpless,
dependent, her heart wrenched. The agony
and the pain, he suffered, she had sensed.
It was unbearable. Tears
copiously formed and rolled down her cheeks, helplessness engulfing her. Was this destined? Was it meant to be her life? She questioned
her fate.
She took out the framed
photo from her bag and placing it on the side table, she sat by his side
looking into those eyes that conveyed nothing, a blank stare. Holding the frame before him, she looked up
for any sign of cognition one last time before she headed with her plans. None whatsoever was forthcoming.
Planting a soft kiss on
his forehead, she took his palms in hers and whispered,
‘Happy anniversary sweet
heart. Today we have completed thirty-two years of our togetherness.’
Kissing the back of his
palm, she continued,
‘I am tired of life, want
to relax with you.’
By now, Sahil should have
called but he hadn’t. If she calls,
talking would take time. And by talking
to him, she may go weak and may back out, she feared. With the time ticking faster, the final
countdown had begun. She couldn’t miss
the auspicious time; she had referred last evening, in the almanac. Before 12.00, it had mentioned.
Taking out the boxes, she
laid the items on the table beside his bed.
Opening the boxes, she poured in some porridge in one bowl. And in the other, four rosogullas. Placing the two bowls on the plate, she put
in a little of pickle. Finally, she took
out the small vial from her bag and added some of its contents on the porridge.
She mixed it thoroughly. Taking one
spoonful, she started feeding him the poisoned food, alternating with pickle.
Stopping halfway, she finished the remaining.
Tears started streaming down her cheeks.
And, now, were his favourite sweets, two for him and two for her. Ten minutes later, the plate emptied. There by eight, she had finished feeding him
and herself as well.
Being Monday, there
wouldn’t be rebirths and one could get moksha,
she had heard. Lying next to him, with
the japa bead string in her hand, she
started chanting prayers, watching his chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm as
he breathed. Her mind now relaxed, for she had freed him from the pain, the
endless pain, he had been suffering from years. Tired to the core her vision started to
blur. Just then, her phone rang. Sahil’s name flashed. Even before she had said hello, she heard him
say,
‘Maa, I am leaving
tonight. See you’ll tommorrow. And I have a surprise for you’ll.’
‘Take care son.’
Silence filled in the
air.
