INNOCENCE LOST (Rewriting)

6: CONTRADICTION

8th May 2011

Blank pages stare at me day and night. Endless number of diaries with ruled sheets, evenly spaced lines waiting to be..fulfilled. I couldn’t stand their emptiness anymore, they mirror my growing vacuum, the nothingness that I breed.

The past month was eventful, in ways I never imagined. I come, he goes, I wake up, he sleeps. There’s this plush bed—extremely soft, the pillows fluffy. We sleep, we fornicate. He begs, I oblige.

Is sex charity?

I am murdering my dreams, they weren’t real. I suffered idealism. He does something, spends hours on his laptop, never leaves his phone behind. Always careful. But, why?

I blink at blurry images—headphones on his ears or around his neck. I jump to Mamoni's shrill voice in the morning. Household chores, eat, sleep, give pleasure. Repeat. Round in a loop I run, never going anywhere.   

I’ll have to enquire. I wonder if everything's as they seem.

 

I wrote to escape, to vent my anguish. I penned my conflict. They weren’t mere thoughts. Lines after lines—naked, uninhabited suddenly danced with hope. The black ink took shape, haphazard strokes curved into meaningful words, they expressed emotions.

In society I was never me, they never let me be. I stopped, I limited myself. I ceased to give opinions. Opinionated girls aren’t good. They think, they say what they deem right. I tried to fit into the mould, the perfect daughter-in-law status is hard to achieve, almost unattainable. It clashes with the idea of thinking women.

I aim to be good.

 

                            **********

It was mid-May. The overcast sky projected a shadow, sun shared its gloom with the Earth. They told stories through the rain—calming, peaceful bedtime stories. The ones that lull children to sleep. Tufts of greyish cloud flew by. They were of myriad shapes—a bull and a bird. One rooted in physicality, another wild and free.

I stood on the balcony. A gentle breeze swept past—my face wet, skin moist, wicked tendrils that hung loose grazed my neck. It was cold and peaceful. Liberating and soothing, kind of transported me to a place quite distant— the hustles and bustles of everyday life earning a well-deserved respite. I savoured the feel, the taste, the smell as it carried a distinct scent from the Chatterjee's backyard: of seasonal flowers and sautéed spices.

Mrs Chatterjee was speaking of Siddhartha's father yesterday, rather tried to. Mr Chartterjee shut her up.

“Rita, why are you bringing these up? Let bygones be bygones. She’s a newly-married girl, talk to her about something good. Not dead people!”

As if I’m alive!

She covered the awkwardness with an impromptu smile, nodded with vigorous up and down movements—the nervousness clear. It triggered a doubt.

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing..there were serious complications. Happens when you d—"

“Happens when your body is failing.” Mr Chatterjee lighted a cigarette and took a puff. Shot his wife a serious look.

“Your father-in-law wasn’t old..around fifty-five if I remember correctly. An affable gentleman who fell into adverse circumstances.”

He released a smoke, it coiled upward and clouded my vision, and along with it my thoughts.