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

him. He held her in a tight embrace. With his hand, he caressed her hair. He moved his face from her neck and kissed her on the forehead. She stiffened a little, but kept on holding him. He raised his hand and ran his forefinger along her back. Her breath became short and heavy but when he moved his lips towards her she drew back. He touched her cheek and tried to draw her close but she pushed him away violently.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” her voice lashed at him in the darkness. She turned and flicked on the bedside lamp. He looked away and rubbed his eyes in the glare.
“It doesn’t mean anything to you, does it? Our son’s death; it does not make any difference to you at all. Nothing matters to you at all, does it? As long as it does not interfere with your routine, everything is fine, isn’t it? All you want is your food and sex!
Never once did you say anything about how you felt. I never saw you shed a tear for him. Don’t you feel anything? Sometimes I feel that it is all my loss! How can you be so cold and heartless!” He tried to say something, but she moved away and said, “Leave me alone!”
He sighed, got up from the bed in silence and went into the sitting room.
***

She wandered about the house listlessly, not knowing what to do with the time. The house was again laden with emptiness and silence. She went over to the window and looked outside at the garden. It was in full bloom. Unbelievably bright colors met her gaze. She looked away. It seemed to her a gross injustice that while her house was all dark and dull and drab, right outside the world was ablaze with colors, that life was moving on just the same. She wrung her hands vexedly and walked over to the writing table. She pulled the chair back and sat down heavily, as if dead tired. She looked at the papers on the table. It was her husband’s table, strictly off limits for her. Idly, she pulled the handle of the drawer. It opened. She blinked in surprise. Out of curiosity, and the desire to pass the time, she pulled the drawer further. There were some papers there. She rifled through them, careful not to disturb their order. Her hand touched something hard. She lifted the papers and saw a diary. She was surprised. She did not know that her husband kept a diary. She took it out and looked at it in quiet surprise. She opened it at random and started reading:

April 25: Our son graduated today. With distinction! What a proud moment it was for me. All through the ceremony, I wanted to clap and cheer and tell the person sitting next to me that it was my son, MY SON, being honored in each subject on the stage. But, of course, I did not say anything. It is not the done thing. So, I sat in silence soaking every moment. She sat next to me, recording it all for later viewing. She always does that. She wants to store all the memories on camera, while I want to live every moment, relish every moment, unencumbered and undiluted by devices and technical details. I feel that they take away the essential pleasure. Anyway, it was wonderful, WONDERFUL. I cannot express how proud and happy I felt. We went out for dinner and for the first time I had a drink with my son. He is a grown up man now. It is time for us to grow and deepen new bonds of camaraderie. I know that he feels the same way; she doesn’t. She was annoyed with me over it. But, it is all right. The occasion demanded it.

She remembered the occasion. She had not been just annoyed with him. She had not spoken to him for two days. But, he had not said anything at the time. In fact, he had continued to talk to her without anger or reproaches. She swallowed hard and opened another page at random…

Sept 06: We had a fight today. I mean Nina and Ricki had a fight today, while I remained the neutral and silent spectator. He wanted to buy a bike; she was against the idea. It started as a light-hearted discussion but soon changed into an argument. They argued over it for quite some time. It ended with her clamping up as usual. He went into his room and banged the door, neither seeing, or perhaps not wanting to see, the other’s point if view. I understand both their points of views. At his age, precaution is the last thing on his mind. She, of course, is protective, over protective. But, she is entitled to be over protective, even irrational at times. She is a mother after all. After she had gone to sleep, I went into his room. He was awake. I sat by his side and looked at him. He smiled at me.
Your mother loves you; you know that, don’t you? I asked him.
He looked at me, smiled and nodded.
She just wants you safe. She cares for you, doesn’t want you to get hurt, I told him. He nodded again and said that he knew.
I smiled at him again and wished him good night. As I got up, he did too. I looked at him and felt that he wanted to hug me. Suddenly I too wanted to. But, I guess it is too late to change. So, he just smiled again. I too smiled. At the door, he said, “Dad?” I turned to look around. My heart beat wildly, but he just smiled again and said, “Good night”. I know that he wanted to say ‘I love you.’ I too wanted to say, ‘I love you, son.’ but didn’t; I just wished him. But, he knows, without my saying. He knows that I love him.

Unable to read any further, she looked up. Tears stung her eyes. So, that was why he had said that her son knew that she loved him. She sighed and opened the diary again. It was like feeling a loose tooth with the tongue; you knew it was going to hurt, but could not restrain yourself.

Nov. 16: He died today. In an accident. Our son di…

Nov. 20: It has been four days today. These have been terrible, terrible days. My head feels heavy. It is an ordeal even to move slightly and I have to do so much. I could not write regularly because I felt too tired and I had to look after her too. Suddenly, I have this desire to record every thing, every small thing to come back to later. Like my wife, I too am recording everything. Only this is pain. Perhaps, I want to come back to all this later, remember and know that once I too felt; I too was alive.

Nov. 22: It’s been a week today. And I had to write about…about it. I could not bring myself to do it but I just have to. A policeman called me up and asked me to come over to the station. He did not mention the purpose, but fear overcame me. I did not tell her anything. I don’t know how I reached the station. The inspector was very kind, and slightly embarrassed too. I asked him pointblank if there was something wrong with my son. He told me the news. I could not believe him. I had thought he had been caught in a scuffle or something. He asked me to identify the body. The body! It is my son, I wanted to shout; he’s not just a body. But it wasn’t his fault. And he was right: it was just his body. Cold. Lifeless. Dead. I was dazed. My mind was numb. I could not think anything. I just stood there gaping. The inspector touched my shoulder. After a while and some formalities, I was on my way home. Images swirled in my head: my son’s voice, his laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief, his body. It went on and on until I could not see at all. I nearly hit a tree. I stopped my car some blocks away from the house and stared ahead blankly. My mind seemed frozen. Suddenly, my stomach started heaving. I swallowed until I could hold it no longer. My body was wracked by sobs. I rested my head on the steering wheel and then I cried.

She wiped the tears that had started pouring down her face. One or two tears ran down her cheeks, quivered on her jaw and then fell on the pages of the diary smudging the words. She got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She sighed heavily, went back to the table and continued reading.

I did not know how I was going to face her, tell her. I sat in the car for a long while trying to catch my breath. My head seemed curiously empty and heavy. I got out of the car and then stood outside the door, uncertain, unsure. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door. She was at the table, laying plates for dinner. I stood watching her wondering what would be the best way of telling her. Then realizing that there was no easy way. I decided to be blunt.
Honey, I called out to her. My voice, a hoarse whisper, did not reach her. She went on humming. I cleared my throat. She looked up with a smile at the sound. Seeing that it was me, she looked disappointed and said, “Oh, It’s you.” I smiled at her rather foolishly. “He is late again. You must talk to him.” I went over to the table and turned his plate over. She looked at me surprised and said, “What are you doing?”
“He is not coming,” I said.
“Oh! What am I going to do with all this food? Did he call you? Where is he? When will he come home?” she asked.
I sighed. How do people in similar situations handle them, I wondered? I am such a novice at this. I wanted to lie, to save her the blow. But, how could I? By now, she was looking at me curiously.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion and fear. “Where is he? When is he coming back? What is wrong, tell me. Hen is he coming back?”
I looked away and then said, “He is not coming back.”
A ghost of a disbelieving smile hovered on her face and then disappeared. The color went off her face. She stepped back. “Not coming back? What do you mean?” I moved towards her but she moved back again. “What do you mean?” she repeated, her voice a whisper.
“He is dead.”
Suddenly, all the sounds in the room died. I could hear her breath. She blinked at me rapidly. “What?” she whispered. I nodded at her. She swallowed hard and her face puckered up. Her hand went to her head; she swayed a little and swooned. I rushed to her and caught her limp body. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I would have to hide my own pain. I had to be strong for her.
We came back from the funeral yesterday. Funeral. Such a simple word and yet it has a tone of finality to it. As if, once you say the word all becomes final, hopeless. Not that there was any hope before. Anyway, we stood outside the front door, hesitating. When we came inside, we were