22. Hours

Hours

“Mamma, a man is waiting outside. He asked for you. I told him you were cooking pancakes,” he sank back into his couch comfortably and returned his concentration to a Marvel comics.

“How many times do I have to tell you, don’t talk to strangers!” she chided her eight-year old son, who in turn, frowned at her.

He crunched his nose upwards and crinkled his eyebrows. He resembled his father so much, that it unnerved her at times.

Dusting the flour off her hands, she headed towards the door. Adjusting her dress, she opened the door.

“Hi,” a familiar voice brought her back to her senses.

She stared at him, as if she had seen a ghost. She blinked a few times and suddenly, slammed the door on his face. She stumbled backwards and flopped on the floor, clutching her heart. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her nose had started running. She was choking on hiccups, she couldn’t catch her breath.

After calming herself, she stood up slowly. She gathered herself, and re-opened the door. He was still standing there. 

Seven years.

She had lived like a widow for seven long years, raising her son as a single mother. She was convinced that, she had lost her husband to the ongoing war, but, there he was standing, boldly, blatantly proving the truth of his existence. 

“It’s me,” he muttered softly. She jolted back into her senses. She had longed to hear this voice, to hear him calling out her name, to get him back from the snare of blood and bullets.

He was wearing a dirty uniform, it was covered with muck and stale blood. His hair was unkempt, and he had a nasty scar across his left cheek. He looked careworn.

She reached out, and took his bag from him. His fingers brushed against her bare arm. She shuddered, he was too real. She still couldn’t process it.

Her husband was back from the dead. He was standing in front of her, in flesh and blood.  The term ‘husband’ sounded alien to her ears, she only had one short year to enjoy being married, because he had left for Iraq, the very next February.

The man standing at her doorstep, was a stranger to her.

“Kabir,” she called out in a cracked voice. She could hear the scuffling sound of his tiny feet.

What would she tell her son? Their son? How would she explain? She had erased all evidence that this man ever existed, in her life. She was used to being a single mother. 

“Yes, Mamma?” he turned towards the door and peeked a glance at the man standing before him. He cautiously moved closer to his mother, as if trying to shield her from whatever terminal radiation that man was emitting.

“Say hello to your Papa,” she sighed. 

“Papa? But I don’t have a Papa,” he frowned at her. 

“I told you that Papa was away fighting bad men, remember?” she picked him up in his arms and concentrated on cradling him. She could hear that her husband was breathing rather rapidly. She hadn’t missed the gasp, which he had exhaled when he first saw their son. 

Kabir nodded at the man, “Welcome home, Papa.”

He entered the tidy flat. She had shifted to the suburb from the main city. He had to make a few calls, before he could finally track her down. He had anticipated her reaction.

It was the child, their child, who had knocked the breath out of his guts. His mind was clamouring in shock. He just blindly followed his wife. 

“I will arrange for some fresh clothes,” she pressed her lips together. She opened the bathroom door open for him and scurried away.