The Waves Whisper ✓

27 | crimson smears

22

𓂃𓊝𓂃

Six years later,

1981

There was a wooden table in the living room of Neelam's house where I used to scribble something during my free time after work. I started working in kindergarten near the house, and it gave me a sense of belonging. Being with little children during the day made me forget the sorrows in my life. In the evening, Akash, my eleven-year-old nephew, would sit across from me to do his homework. It was hard to tell that he was present since he would not make a noise. He was a quiet and studious kid, while my son was the exact opposite. Sagar was 5 at the time and was very clumsy and noisy. He would sit on the floor with his colored pencils and draw aggressively on the paper until it ripped apart. My daughter was one of a kind and would never leave her room. Tara would be in her room, either playing with toys or looking at pictures of Akash's comics collection. She never talked a lot, even as a child. She never got along with anyone except Akash because he was her constant supplier of comic books. She had her father's same lustrous, curly hair. Once, Neelam vaguely asked from where Tara got her curls.

"Both you and Vikram don't have curly hair." Her question made me feel uneasy. Questions about my past inquiries about Vikram and my marriage troubled me to a great extent.
Even after all those years, I was hesitant to tell Neelam about Apoorva. I was afraid of what their reactions would be.

I would say that my husband passed away to the concerned people. And it was true. After I left Vikram, he continued his excessive drinking, and it took his life in 1977. I had no remorse or sympathy for what he went through.
I had grown resentful in the succeeding years after Apoorva's death. I believed that Vikram was one of the reasons for the mishaps that happened in my life. Things would have been different if he hadn't agreed to marry me.

Neelam used to pester me to remarry sometimes. She said that both Tara and Sagar needed a father figure. But she always dropped the conversation about remarriage halfway, realising how adamant I was about not marrying again. I knew no man would love them like their father would have.

On one fine evening, I was in the living room trying to write a story. After five years, I sat down to finish the story that I started writing when I was in Delhi. As I completed a few pages, I went to the kitchen to quench my thirst. When I came back, I was stunned to see Sagar sliding his coloured pencil across the pages. I knew it was a trivial mistake, and it was very pathetic of me to scold a five-year-old who didn't even know how to read and write. But I was angry. My anger was my only companion in those five years. He started to cry out loud after I shouted at him.

"Give me the papers, Sagar; don't be stubborn." I tried to retrieve the paper from his hand. "Just like your father." I muttered under my breath.

"There's no paper left for me to draw, Maa."

"There are plenty of papers in the cupboard."

"But I need this one." He started crying and throwing a tantrum.

"Is everything okay over here?" Someone was at the doorstep. A man stood there, slightly peeking in. His hair was the colour of chocolate-wavy, and grown up to his neck. He is dressed in rouge-coloured shirt, neatly tucked into his pants.

"No. Maa is trying to kill me. Save me, uncle." Sagar whined.

"It is true; what he's saying?" His accent was alien to me.

"No. He's being dramatic."

"Yes." Sagar answered his question.

"Sagar. You're really getting on my nerves, kid."

"Maa is always angry like this."

"But it looks like you need to calm down a bit." He said to me.

"Would you just...?!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Would you two just shut up for a second? This is between me and my five-year-old stubborn son. Who are you to interfere? I mean, who are you anyway?"

"Oh, I just moved into the house next to yours. I thought I'd come and say hello to my neighbours." He looked at Sagar, then at me. "Seems like not a good time to say hi."

"Oh, hey, you're the one who moved in next door." It was Neelam who came back from her work.

"Yes." He said, with a smile that reached to the back of his head. Smile lines formed on the sides of his eyes.

"I saw you in the morning. Me and my husband were in such a rush that we couldn't say hello."

"It's fine."

"I forgot to ask your name."

"It's Milan. Chatterji."

"I'm Neelam Agarwal, and this here is my younger sister, Roopali."

"Just Roop," I said.

"Okay, just Roop." He said, plastering a very infectious smile on his lips.

"Why don't you come in?" Neelam said.

"That's nice of you."

"Tea or coffee." Neelam asked as he settled on the couch.

"Anything is fine."

"My husband, Benoy, will be here in a few minutes. He'd love to meet you."

"I'd like to meet him too."

"Why does your Hindi sound a bit different?"

"I was in Australia for some time. I did my studies there."

I retired to my room as Neelam and the man were chatting with each other.

"Who's this little gentleman here?" I saw him patting Sagar's head just before I went into my room.

The next time we had an interaction was weeks later, on Durga Puja. He was on the organising committee. The air was filled with anticipation as Durga Puja reached its final day. Among the festivities, a group of women prepared for a significant ritual known as Sindoor Khela. Sindoor Khela was a sacred ritual where married women applied vermilion to each other's foreheads and smeared it across each other's faces, playfully symbolizing their marital bond and wishing each other a blessed life. I sat on the steps watching Sagar and Tara play in the corner with some other kids while Neelam was celebrating Sindoor Khela with the married women from the community.

"Hey, just Roop." Milan Chatterji stood in front of me with the friendliest smile on his face.

"Little Sagar over here has something to offer you," He said, stepping aside to reveal Sagar standing behind him. He was holding something inside his tiny palms. They had become friends in a short span of time. Sagar would greet Milan in the morning by shouting 'Good morning' from across the house. And he would do the same, and he would engage in chatting about things that happened at his school that day in the evening. Tara was a bit shy and aloof at first. But it all went away once Milan soothed her crying after she fell from a bicycle while learning to ride. Sometimes I felt that they liked him more than they liked me. I had never seen them talk with anyone like they did with him.

"Wha-" Before I could finish, he swiftly tried to smear the vermilion he was holding inside his palms on my face.

I caught his hand. "Sagar, you know Maa can't do this."

"But we are playing Holi, aren't we? Why can't you play Holi?" His little eyes drooped in disappointment.

I heaved a sigh. "It's not Holi, beta. I'll let you smear colours on my face on Holi, but not now." I gave him a glum smile. "Now go and play with those kids."

"I'm sorry; Sagar said he wanted to do that. I- I didn't know that you weren't participating." Milan said after Sagar left.

"It's fine. You don't have to say sorry."

He sat next to me. "Why are you not taking part in this?"

"It's for married women, and I'm a widow."

"Oh, I- I'm sorry." He fell silent for a few seconds. "Is it okay if I ask you what happened?"

Something tightened in my heart. A simple question from him transported me to those wretched memories.

His face is a vivid picture in my mind; his voice still resonated in my ears like waves crashing the shore; his touch was still soothing to my skin.

I wanted to remember everything about him except that one grim evening.

"No. It's not okay." I nodded my head. I noticed that a teardrop had escaped from my eyes.

"You know." He startled me. "Screw it. I think everyone should be able to participate in it. Married, unmarried, widow, or transgender woman. Even I want to participate."

His last sentence made me laugh.

"Why? Why are you laughing?"

"You're serious?"

"Yes. It looks so interesting." He pointed at the women.

"Did you love your husband?" He asked with curiosity beaming in his eyes.

More than myself.

I nodded.

"Is he still alive in your mind?"

"He is."

"When you marry someone you love, it's your souls that bind together, not your body. Kya koee kisee kee aatma ko nasht kar sakata hai? (Can someone destroy someone's soul?) Your marriage is not broken unless one of you stops loving the other one. And unless that love is dead, you can't call yourself a widow."

I wiped off the tears with the heels of my palms. "You're right. But I don't know how long it will take for me to get out of my shell."

"It might take time. But there's no wound that time can't heal."

I smiled sorrowfully.

"Oh, I forgot the reason why I came." He said, taking out a paper from his pocket.

"This. Sagar gifted me a picture when I came to your house."

It was drawn on top of the story I had written.

"You've written something here. You really have a way with words. Why don't you publish it?

I quickly reached for the paper. I felt a bit embarrassed. I didn't think someone from outside would read it.

"It's a gift. You can't take it from me."

"What? Are you a publisher because you're so keen on publishing my book?"

"No." He laughed. "I'm an English lecturer at the university. But my uncle has a publishing company. I might be able to introduce you. But you need to let me read a few pages of your work. At least a few excerpts."

Fear crept into my face, like I had seen a ghost. "No," I said, blatantly. "It's bad. I write because I've got nothing else to do with my life. And thanks for the offer." I said that and got up before he could say anything.

"How long will you hide like this?" I heard him say as I walked away.


.....

So, I am planning to conclude this story very soon. I thought I would be able to stretch the story into 15 or more chapters, emphasizing the relationship between each character. But I am getting really busy, and I have to finish this story before January 15th. Thank you for supporting the story from the beginning. ❤️