The Inherited Custody

CHAPTER III

2

Yesterday, our daughter reminded me of when she was so little, yet she remembered— when you used to go out into the garden in the evenings. Every time you went, I would serve tea to our Guru and sit with her, talking about leaves, the beautiful valley that this is. And then you would come, thriving step by step, with pockets full of freshly plucked fruits, guava for me especially. Always.

I couldn't believe that Aarti, so young, could even remember something like that. Do you?

I also remember when this place felt like a fairyland to us. All of us. Even you. We would wake up and wear earmuffs, wrapped up in shawls, share chores in the kitchen. Sometimes we went to the library as well— arranging books, dusting the shelves. We would take the children to pluck green chilies at times or simply go on long walks. To achieve the divine. To connect with the universe. Together.

Oh, how time stood still, beautiful and bliss. It still is all there, here, right where we are. I am sitting in that place where you got me fresh fruits, plucked off long trees that you climbed like a baboon on, even when every other woman laughed at you. And things haven't changed here. Only there, only you.

I came here to simply have tea. The children were still at school. But they may return any moment. They walk back and forth since it is not very far. They miss you.

But having tea, the breeze reminded me of all the good things that happened, that had you before. And perhaps it still has. I am not sure. It seems unreal that you aren't here. Even if it's been so long— how long— I am not sure about that either. But long, long. When so much time passes so fast, everything that happened before becomes more and more vivid at times.

And now that I am writing this, you seem lost. Are you lost? Are these writings reaching you? Have you even read my previous letter? I don't know. Because I never thought of you as a lost person. I often wonder, can one get lost, knowingly, believing, that they will find their way back home?

***

3

I apologize again. Really.

I was reluctant to write you in the first place. And instead of hiding that reluctance, I perhaps splayed it out to you in the form of several questions. I am scared I might have put you off. Please tell me I haven't.

I think of you sometimes. Not all the time because I am often busy with chores. The children go to a school nearby. It is tiny, and many other children go there too. When they return, one of the residents here, Kanti, takes care of them. There are about ten children here at the Ashram. Guru sits with them every day for some time.

I do miss you sometimes. But you not replying to my letters makes me not want to write this to you at all. Yet, I do not let anger or annoyance get to me. You are still my husband, and I remember that. Guru told me that no matter what, you are who you are— the father of my children.

In fact, she is the one who reminded me of you when she asked whether you had replied to my previous letter or not. And when I thought of those letters, I felt it was only appropriate to write you again.

But I am losing the idea of whether you are even getting these letters. If not, well, then I am not sure what to do.

Although not writing to you at all also does not feel the correct answer as well.