letting go by gurpartap singh (i am malala young readers edition txt) 📕

Letting Go

They stood outside the front door, hesitating. She pursed her lips and blinked, fighting back tears. He swallowed hard and exhaled. Taking out the key from his pocket, with a sudden swift motion, as if to get it over with, he inserted and turned it. His hand rested on the doorknob for a long second. Then he took a deep breath and pushed open the door. They stood on the threshold looking in at the emptiness. He turned to his right and flicked on the lights. The bareness of the house seemed to glare at them more strongly than before. Earlier they would open the door with gusto and smile wincingly at the sound of the TV or the music system, which their son used to put on at full blast. But today the house seemed to echo with silence. They looked about the house vacantly, unused to its grave stillness Her eyes moved to the mantelpiece and rested on the photograph of their son. Tears sprang to her eyes and she pursed her lips again. He looked at her and seeing the direction of her gaze put his arm round her shoulder and pulled her closer. They moved towards the bedroom in silence. She sat down on the bed heavily, as if all life had gone from her body. He looked at his wife as she cupped her face in her hands.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Water, tea, coffee?”
His voice sounded hoarse and he coughed to clear it. She looked up at him, her eyes red with the tears she had and had not shed. For some reason, he felt ashamed and looked away.
“Can I have a drink?” she asked.
He looked at her in surprise. She had never asked for a drink before. But, today, of all days, he could not refuse her. He nodded and walked over to the cabinet. He poured a small whisky for her and a large one for himself. God knew that he could use a drink today.
“Pour me a stiff one, will you?” her voice reached out to him in a whine and seeing his back straighten at the request, she said, “Please?”
He added to her drink, poured soda and water and walked with the glasses to the bed. He held out her drink to her. For a moment, she hesitated and then took the glass. He sat down in the chair opposite her. Again, they looked at each other, embarrassed by this new and awkward situation of drinking together. He took a sip, swirled the drink in his mouth, feeling its heat warm his face from within. She raised her glass to her lips and grimaced at the smell. She wet her lips and took a tentative sip. It seemed to burn her throat as it went down. She felt her face go red. Suddenly, she hiccupped. She cleared her throat and swallowed hard. She smiled at him awkwardly and felt rather foolish.
“Are you sure you want to drink this?” he asked with concern.
She nodded to him. Now that she knew the strength and the flavor, she felt braced for her next sip. She took another sip, this time a larger one. But the bitterness remained. She held the glass away from her face in distaste. “How can you drink this?” she asked.
“In the beginning, it is bad. One has to develop a taste for it. Then you get used to it,” he said.
“Develop a taste for it,” she said blandly. “One has to develop a taste for everything, get used to everything, doesn’t one?” she added rhetorically.
He knew what she was talking about, but did not want to encourage the topic. He remained silent and then took another long sip. “Is it true that one gets used to everything?” she asked. “Is it possible? Will we get used to it, too?”
He looked up at the ‘it’ but remained quiet. Her face puckered up with the pent up tears. “Will we… will we ever get used to it? Our son…our son…” Her voice became a wail.
“How could it happen? How could it happen to us? Our son, our only son. Dead, just like that. He was here yesterday. How could he not be here now? How can life go just like that?”
He placed his glass on the table and sat by her side, holding her. She clung to him, sobbing against his chest. He could not think of anything he could say that would make a difference. He did what he could do: held her closely, caressed her back. Presently, she stopped sobbing and drew back a little. When she seemed in control, he got up and went to the bathroom. He brought a Valium for her and held the glass of water and the tablet to her. She raised herself with an effort and took the small tablet. He pulled the blanket to her chin and reached over to switch the lights off. He walked to the chair and sat in heavily. He closed his eyes and started rocking his chair. Soon his wife’s breath became soft. He opened his eyes and looked at the bed. He could only make out her silhouette. He listened for sounds but all he could hear in the darkness was silence.
***
He opened the door. The sound of the TV reached his ears. For a second he stood there in disbelief. Then, shaking his head, he went inside. The house was in total darkness. He looked about in surprise and switched on the lights. He called to his wife but there was no response. He went into the bedroom. She was in bed, still in her nightdress. By the light of the TV, he could see that her eyes were red and puffed. It seemed that she had not moved from the bed at all.
“What are you watching?” he asked, trying to make his voice casual and curious.
She kept on staring at the TV, not replying. She took a deep breath and without looking at him said, “Nothing. The house was so silent I thought I would go mad. I wanted to hear some sound, put on some music.”
“You should have. Why didn’t you?”
She turned to look at him and, in an accusing tone, said, “The music system is in his room. I could not bear to go into his room.”
He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He took her hand in his and patted it softly.
***

She sat opposite him at the dining table. He had cajoled her to move out of the bed. At first, she had resisted, but then, perhaps thinking that it was easier to give way than resist, had joined him. He put a large helping of the noodles he had ordered on her plate and then helped himself. She looked at her plate and making a wry face looked away.
“Do you think I was a good mother?” she asked suddenly. He did not want to talk about it, but he felt that it would be better to talk about it and put it behind them.
“Of course you were. You shouldn’t think so much.”
“I love him. Do you think he knows…” she shook her head and corrected herself, “knew?”
“Yes, he did. Why do you doubt?”
“He wanted so much to buy the bike. I refused. But, it was only for his safety. He knew that, didn’t he? I…I should have let him buy it. Why did I refuse? He died anyway. In an accident! Isn’t that ironical?”
Her eyes rested on the empty chair. She looked at his plate with cold disgust and asked, “How can you?”
“Huh?” he mumbled with his mouth full. “How can I what?”
“Our son is dead!” she yelled. “How can you sit at the table, with his empty chair right there and eat, gorge like a pig? Seeing you eat, one would think that you were at a party and not in mourning. All you are concerned with is breakfast, lunch and dinner! How can you even think of eating?”
She pushed her plate away, backed her chair with such force that it toppled over and she almost ran back into the bedroom. Even from the table, he could hear the sound of her sobs. He placed his spoon on the plate, cocked his head and with his forefinger rubbed his eyebrow.
***

When he came back from the office he was surprised to find the front door locked. He frowned. She had not been out for months. He opened the door with his own key and switched on the lights. He called her on her cell-phone but she disconnected his call. That meant that she was near the house. He took off his tie and went into the kitchen. He put on the water for tea and idly watched it boil. Presently he heard her car turn up the drive. He poured tea in two mugs and carried them into the living room. She entered the house, laden with four shopping bags. He got up and took the bags from her.
“Shopping?” he asked needlessly. She smiled tiredly. They both sat down on the couch and she put up her feet on the table. He handed her a cup.
“Tea,” she said gratefully and smiled at him. “Just what I needed.”
They sipped their tea quietly. Then he cleared his throat and said, “So, what did you buy?”
“I did not even wan to go shopping,” she replied. “It’s just that I had nothing to do.”
“That doesn’t matter. You went out of the house, at least, after what – three months?”
“Two months and twenty-eight days,” she replied dully.
“Show me what you bought,” he said hurriedly.
She leaned over and picking a bag placed it in her lap. From it, she pulled out a grey, pleated skirt. She held it up for him to see.
“Nice,” he said.
Then she took out two tops: pink and dark blue. Again he nodded, and to show his appreciation said, “Your colors; they are good.”
She put them back into the bag and picked up another one. From this one, she took out two printed nighties. He smiled at her.
“This all didn’t take much time so I went into the Home section. I bought some towels and bed sheets.”
“What’s in the last one?” he asked.
“Something for you,” she said, and took out an orange sweat shirt. He paled a little.
“You like it?” she asked him.
“Hmm hmm.”
She looked at it wistfully. “This was his favorite color, wasn’t it?”
He coughed a little and took the sweat shirt from her.
“I bought some shirts too,” she told him.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I don’t need anything.”
“You think I bought all this because I needed it?” she asked him sharply. “I just wanted to have something to do; I didn’t need to shop.”
“Then you shouldn’t have,” he said. He dug an elbow into her side with sad jocularity, and added, “You would have saved money; you should save it, you know.”
She sighed deeply and said, “For what?”
***

They lay on their bed, both trying to sleep. But sleep seemed to elude them. He could not see her face in the darkness but had the feeling that she was crying silently. He reached out to her and touched her face; it was wet. He turned on his side and lay by her side. “Don’t cry, dear, please,” he whispered. She turned to him and clung to