A Different Kind of Celebration

The humid air, the sweat on their naked bodies, and the orgasm they were recovering from were still making things a little blurred. Both of them took a moment, and when the moment was gone, a hand reached to the table and grabbed the box of cigarettes. The lady’s hand went out and fetched the lighter from the bedside table; with a tiny flick, the flame and the small circle of orange flickering light fell on two pairs of hands, shining on the beads of sweat still lingering on those two pairs of arms. The gentleman pulled out two cigarettes, one for himself, and one for the lady. A few puffs later, the two cigarettes were lit. Another click, and the room was again left in darkness, except the two specks of orange that were the ends of the lit cigarettes.

“Do you think we’re getting old?” he asked her in the dark room.

“What? Why do you think so, all of a sudden? We’re still in the prime of our life!” she said, as she finished her cigarette, threw away the cigarette stub, and ruffled the sheets to snuggle next to the gentleman.

He finished the cigarette and threw away the stub as well, and held the lady in his arms. The snuggle didn’t last too long though, for he got up and switched on the bedside lamp.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“I think I need a shower,” he said without looking at her.

“What is it? All these years, you’ve never needed a shower after sex. What’s up?”

“I don’t know. I think… I need a shower. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, alright. I’ll wait for you, right here.”

He got out of bed, wore the robe and walked barefoot across the bedroom floor. The cool tiles beneath his feet seemed smooth, and cold. He couldn’t understand how he had never focused on the smoothness of the tiles beneath his feet, how cool the tiles get every night. The cold of the tiles seemed to travel, from his toes and his sole, to the calf, the knees. The cold touched his thighs, his abdomen, his chest. He could feel goosebumps running all over his body, and he was suddenly aware of every hair that stood up in response to that cold tile beneath his feet.

The walk from the bed to the shower took a very long time, and he could feel the eyes of the lady lying on the bed on him. His ears were tuned for every sound in the room, but the lady said nothing. A rustle of fabric, and his ears knew that she wasn’t looking at him anymore. His brain knew that she had turned over, and somehow, his brain also knew that she was starting to get worried about him. “Just a little bit worried,” he told himself.

The door creaked, as he closed it. The sound was a bit jarring to his ears, but he felt it in a way he had never felt it before. He heard the sound of the door for the first time in his life, this clearly; the thud at the end of the creak, which made him aware that the door had reached the frame. The latch fell into place with a small click. His ears had been expecting it, and when it came, it was a bit like getting a well anticipated gift. He could feel every part of his body in a way that he never had felt it before.

He turned to the mirror, and saw his face. The skin, the muscles working under them. Tiny variations in these muscles had the ability to show his innermost feelings to the rest of the world. So powerful, yet so fragile. A careless razor blade is all it took them sometimes, to make them bleed.

He took off his robe, and saw the rest of the muscles. They were taut, ready, even in the middle of the night. His shoulders weren’t broad, his chest wasn’t big, and his arms were longer than muscular. Still, at that moment, he loved his body in a way he never knew he could.

He could feel his breathing, the air that flowed in, and the waste that flowed out of his lungs, through his nostrils. He could smell the air, for the first time in his life. Somewhere deep inside the rib cage, he could feel a rhythmic thumping. His heart was still beating, and for the first time in his life, he was so aware of it.

He stepped under the water, and he could feel the water flowing all over him; kissing his body in a way even the lady waiting outside couldn’t. Every muscle, every ligament, every sinew of his body seemed to respond to him tonight. He wore the robe again, and stepped outside the bathroom.

“Honey, I think I’m going to quit smoking,” he said.

“Why?” she asked. It wasn’t something that she had expected from him.

*****

It had happened in the morning – the small blob of blood, along with his spit, as the usual morning cough bout had hit. He had gotten scared, and so had rushed to the doctor. He had been smoking for almost ten years, and the doctors said that might be the cause. They would have to run a series of tests, to know for sure.

It was at that moment that he knew what they were talking about. It was at that moment that he started fully appreciated his body, and realized that how he had abused it all these years. He knew something was wrong, he knew his days were numbered. So, he had made the call. He met the lady, to celebrate his body, one more time. Soon, he might not be able to do that anymore…

*****

“Honey, what’s the matter? You haven’t spoken for about four minutes now. Why are you suddenly quitting smoking? What happened?”

He tried to smile, and his face complied – even if his brain and his heart didn’t. “Nothing. It’s just time for me to quit, that’s all,” he said. She didn’t notice the empty smile.

*****

The test results came out a few days later. A small burst capillary had caused the blood in the spit, nothing more. Exertion, probably, had done it. Something like running after a bus, or running with the dog, the doctor told him.

He held the results in his hand as he walked out of the chambers. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal, but still he heaved a big sigh of relief.

He was in love again – with his own self. That, in his opinion, was reason to celebrate. Although, in a different way…

A Change of Heart

The death of Mrs. Shyama Chaudhuri had left her husband deeply troubled. Mr. Ranjan Chaudhuri, at 87 years of age, was left all alone in the world. Ranjan Chaudhuri’s best friend at the time of his wife’s death was a man 28 years younger than him. Biplob was 59, on the verge of retirement. “Ready to officially enter the world of the old folks,” he always joked. Ranjan could identify with the humor of that statement so well, that it brought a snicker to his eyes. Every time he heard the joke.

It was Biplob who had introduced Mr. and Mrs. Chaudhuri to the world of computers. Ranjan never knew that he could grasp computers so well, even at that age. Soon after he got his new computer, Ranjan spent hours together playing games with his grandson Tukai. Shyama, however, had been hooked on to social networking sites.

Shyama’s heart attack struck her in the middle of the night, while the elderly couple was sleeping peacefully. Ranjan had known something like this was about to happen, but hadn’t expected the incident to come about so suddenly, silently. The next morning was one of the toughest to deal with for Ranjan. He hardly remembered making the call to Biplob about what had happened during the night. Biplob and his wife had come over, and taken charge of the whole situation for Ranjan.

A few hours later, while leaving the cremation grounds, the reality of the events hit Ranjan. Biplob and Ranjan were walking back to the parking lot, when Ranjan’s footsteps slowed down a miniscule bit. Biplob noticed, but didn’t want to ask anything; couldn’t ask, actually. Ranjan however, spoke up.

“She took another quiz on Facebook last night. Something about what we were in our previous life. The result came out as lovers,” Ranjan smiled a sad smile, “and it confirmed what she always told me for the last 62 years. We’ll still be together in our next life.”

Biplob smiled too, but somehow, he felt that his smile was intruding on something private and pure and guarded between Ranjan and Shyama Chaudhuri. He bowed his head, and walked to the car. It was the first time that they drove together in silence.

*****

Ranjan and Shyama had gotten married when they were both in their 20’s, deeply in love. They were childhood friends, and it was an obvious choice to be made. They were the best of friends, and all through their school days, when Ranjan used to be away, they used to write 40 page letters to each other. Once school was over for Ranjan, and he came back home, it was only a matter of time before the two of them got married.

As Ranjan and Biplob were walking back home after the drive, Ranjan remembered the wonderful life that he had had, all because of the woman who passed away a night ago, lying right next to him. A best friend, a wife, the mother of his children, the strongest woman of his whole family, and she had been lost in just a matter of hours. Just a few hours ago, Ranjan remembered, they were sitting on the edge of the bed having a silly discussion about ice skating. How he missed her…

Biplob left him alone with his thoughts, and went outside to talk to the many relatives who had come over to mourn for Shyama, and Ranjan’s loss.

*****

Ranjan couldn’t get the memories of his wife out of his mind. The constant longing to see Shyama one more time drove him inward, away from the rest of the world. He hardly got out of his room, except for the long walks that he took every day in solitude. The walks became longer and longer as the days went by; whole weeks would soon pass by without him interacting with the rest of his family. Many a times, Ranjan’s son would find Tukai waiting patiently for his gaming partner to accompany him on another mission, but Ranjan wouldn’t be there for Tukai. He kept wondering what had happened to his grandfather, but he somehow got no real answers to all his questions.

Ranjan found a new hobby instead; in place of running to the virtual world, he now escaped into books. Religion, philosophy, history… Ranjan devoured all. He would read into the wee hours of the night, and wake up at the earliest possible hour to run to the library. During his walks, a small notebook would accompany him, and he could be spotted scribbling something in it during the early morning hours. Sitting on a lonely wooden bench in the middle of an overgrown, wild park, he would finally feel content with… something…

****

In reality, Ranjan never forgot how much he missed Shyama. He also didn’t forget the promise that she had made to him before she passed on – that she would be his again, in the next life. Ranjan’s inward drive had brought him to a startling decision; he would end his life, so that once more, he could be with his beloved. In reality, he was trying to search for the justifications of such an act; for he knew that it was a heinous crime to take any life, including your own. In reality, he was looking for a means to escape his life, that he could explain when justice posed the questions – in this life or the next.

So obsessed had he become with that quest, that everything else seemed irrelevant to him. He read scriptures, all of which condemned such an act. He read books on philosophy, which talked about the reasons why a person would commit suicide. Still, his answers, his justifications, they eluded him. He had given up hope of ever finding a solution, and the best that he could come up with was the simple line that his heart always said to him – “I love her, and I miss her.” Nothing else seemed to be important anymore. And so, he went down to the chemist shop and got the seven strips of sleeping pills.

*****

It was just by chance that Biplob was also present in the chemist shop when Ranjan purchased the pills. He didn’t need to see the notebook or the list of books that Ranjan had been reading, to get to know just what was happening. The slight tremble of Ranjan’s hands, as he picked up the small brown pack, was enough for his best friend to know what was happening. A few steps out of the shop, Biplob caught up with Ranjan.

“Hi, Ranjan,” whispered Biplob, right behind him. Ranjan jumped, as he hadn’t expected anyone to be around him.

“What are you doing here?” Ranjan asked, suddenly very defensive.

“You know why I’m here, Ranjan. You know what I’m going to ask from you. You know I’m here to take away that little brown paper pack from you. You know I’m going to throw away the paper packet. You know me well already, Ranjan, enough for me not to have to tell you why I’m here.”

Ranjan didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected this, it wasn’t anywhere in the plans. Even as he heard everything Biplob was saying, one part of him wanted to clutch the little packet and run.

“You don’t get it. I miss her, so much…” Ranjan’s eyes watered up for the first time, as he said these words to someone besides himself.

“I know that. I know just how much you love her, and I know how much you miss her. Still, believe me; you don’t want to do this.”

“What do you mean? You think I’m a coward, that I’d stop myself at this stage?”

“No, Ranjan. All I mean is, you aren’t ready yet,” said Biplob, and the little brown paper bag was gently removed from Ranjan’s hands.

“Come, I’ll walk you home. It’ll be fun – two old folks, walking down the road!”

The smile wasn’t really there on Ranjan’s lips, but his eyes gleamed, as though they were smiling at an old joke that he’d heard a long time back.

*****

Two days later, Biplob came to see Ranjan at home. There was an odd gleam in the old and tired eyes, as though they had found some new energy. Biplob was happy to see his old friend this way.

“Tukai’s waiting for you. He got a new game, for you. That, I think, you’re ready for,” said Biplob.

“I might be. Still, there is a lot more that needs to be done; both for me, and for Tukai. A few things that are much more important than video games or social networking sites or virtual worlds.”

“Like what?” asked Biplob.

Ranjan laced his old boots together, picked up his wooden walking stick, and said, “Like building a few memories, for both of us.”

Silhouette

Maria was happy, as she went down the road. Hopping and skipping, she went over all the new words she had learnt in school that day. Premonition. Rendezvous. And, her personal favorite. Silhouette.

The word had a dreamy feel to it, like a poem for the eyes. Maria was anxious to catch a glimpse of a silhouette in real life, but it’s not easy to catch one in broad daylight, during her school hours. She had raised her hand up to the sun, and although her hand made something of a silhouette, Maria hadn’t been quite satisfied with the effect.

Iqbal’s pastry shop, on the way back home, was open at the time. The tiny shop looked like a birthday cake with lots of candles on it, the lights enhanced greatly by the setting sun. Somehow, she felt the urge for a sweet. Going to the counter, she was greeted by the tempting smell of baking cakes, and the wonderful colors of toffees. She chose an orange toffee, and was soon sucking on it happily as she went back home.

The front door was open, like it always had been. Her mother had been quite careless, right around the time that her father died. Lately, however, she’d become even more careless. Ever since she got a new boyfriend, the guy who would come in a black fast car and whisk her mother away every night.

“Maria, honey, is that you? Gosh, darling, you’re late today,” a voice called from the bedroom as Maria entered. The house seemed to be in disarray, and Maria knew the moment she entered that the cleaning lady hadn’t come. Her mother hadn’t bothered to clean up either, and Maria knew she had to do it.

“Yes, Ma. It’s me. I’m sorry it took me long to reach, I stopped at Iqbal’s for a sweet. I got you one too, do you want it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t have sweets anymore. Too many carbs, it can’t be too good for me, can it?” called back her mother’s voice, moving from the bedroom to the bathroom.

Maria walked slowly to her little brother’s room. She could hear her mother taking a shower, and somehow knew that she would be going out tonight. It would be Maria and her little brother all alone; but the little tiddler didn’t seem to mind all that much. He gave a big grin and a bigger “agoogoo” on seeing Maria, and she smiled back.

“Maria, I’m ready. Steve’s here, I’m leaving now. I’ll be back late, so don’t stay up for me honey. Take care of Junior for me. Dinner’s ready, you just need to warm it up. Goodnight, honey.”

Maria rushed to the door of Junior’s room, and could see the main door open. Steve’s car was standing right outside, and the lights were shining inside the house. She caught a glimpse of her mother as she left – a silhouette, against the car lights.

“Goodnight, Ma,” said Maria in a tiny voice. The car lights moved away, and she slowly closed the door for the night.

The Obsession

Right from an early age, Sameer had been obsessed with death. Not in a crazy or cruel way. Think of it as an intense curiosity. What happens when life is over? What precise moment does a living being cease to exist? And, most importantly, why do living things die?

His first encounter with death had been with the neighborhood cat. Hit and run, and he was the only one on the scene. He remembered how little the cat looked, lying there in the pool of it’s own blood. He remembered how he used to play with that cat, for such long hours. How all that had actually been so fragile. He hadn’t tried saving the cat, he hadn’t even considered it. Somehow, instinctively, he had known that there was no point. Instinctively, he had known that the cat was dead.

He remembered vividly the time when his grandfather went to the hospital for the first time. He had gone there to meet him. He knew that he could ask the old man anything he wanted; the old man wouldn’t laugh at his thoughts, or be worried.

“Dadai, what’s wrong with you?”

“It’s my heart, kiddo. It keeps throwing tantrums.”

“Has it always been this way? I don’t remember you coming to the hospital before this.”

“It’s been a recent thing. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. What’s the matter? What’s bothering you?”

“Dadai, what happens when you die?”

“Well, I don’t know myself. I mean, I don’t really know where you go after you die. Or if you even go somewhere. There are a lot of people who claim a lot of things about death, but I really don’t know who to believe, and who not to. I personally don’t think you should be worried too much about it at this age, kid. You’ll have a lot of time to think about it,” said Dadai, with a faraway look in his eyes. “A lot of time.”

“Are you going to die too, Dadai?” asked Sameer in a tiny, quivering voice.

Dadai smiled, held him close to him, and said, “Not in a while, kiddo.”

*****

Over the next year, his obsession with death grew. A million questions seemed to be burning up inside of him, and somehow he knew he couldn’t ask Dadai anymore. There was nobody he could turn to with the questions, and so he began looking for the answers himself. Dadai had told him about religion providing many views about death. So, he started reading those books. However, he never seemed to be content with any of the answers those books provided. He knew it had to be time to move on.

Now shunning the books, he forayed into searching for the answers himself. To know the answers to death, he somehow thought he first must find out the answers to life itself. So he found the litter of pups near the park, and took it upon himself to care for the little ones. The mother of the pups soon got used to him being around, and soon he found that she was actually looking forward to his visits. Life and love, it seemed, were not that far apart.

As his questions about life began to be answered, although not too much in depth, his answers to death were still just as murky. Just out of curiosity, he had contemplated suicide as well. The only thing that stopped him there was the fact that he wasn’t sure where he would be once he died, if his consciousness would die with him, and all those questions left unanswered. Still, the idea of suicide was enticing.

Pills. Razor blades. A rope with a noose. Even Dadai’s old service revolver. Sameer seemed to have forgotten all about life, and the beauties of that, in his search for the answers for death. Twice, he came dangerously close to killing himself. Once, the thought of his consciousness dying with him stopped him. Another time, his mother walked in on him, and he was forced to throw the razor blade away.

*****

While his obsession for death continued unchecked, Dadai’s health grew worse rapidly. Sameer noticed that Dadai had gone thinner and paler than before, but he was still his chirpy old self. “Don’t worry about me, kiddo. You stay focused on your studies,” Dadai told him once, a few days into his summer vacations.

“Studies? Dadai, it’s the summer holidays! I’m not going to study now. I’m going to Hyderabad for the summer. No studies there for me. Ha ha!”

“Well, then, in that case, enjoy your holidays. Don’t worry about me, enjoy your life as and when it comes.”

*****

Two weeks into the vacation, his father got a frantic call from home. Dadai wasn’t well. Two days later, they were back home. Dadai was in the hospital, and the house seemed strangely empty. Sameer used to stay at home, while his sister would take care of him. Sameer used to feel very lonely at home, without Dadai; but he didn’t really have anyone he could tell that to. The only person he could tell it to without having to think, was Dadai.

Four days later, Dadai died in the hospital. Left ventricle failure, Sameer learnt those words by heart. He wondered what his reaction to the news would be like; he waited for the tears to come. They didn’t come.

He couldn’t sleep all that night. It was the first time that he spent the night pacing the house, wondering what exactly it was that he was missing. He was sad, but he had no way to show it. He had lost a friend in Dadai, and the fact that he would never see Dadai walk in again through the door, wearing the brown golf cap, and his short walking stick in his hand settled down heavily somewhere on his chest. He didn’t find any of the answers he was looking for, but he finally understood that there’s no point in looking for all those answers. All that matters in the end, is the deep resonating interconnections that exist between life, love, and death.

The next morning, when he woke up, he went outside to the courtyard. Dadai’s chair was there, as usual, but Dadai wasn’t sitting there reading the newspaper like every day. Instead, the unopened newspaper was laid neatly on the cushion.

The tears flowed finally, late by one night.

A Letter

Dear Jacqueline,

I don’t know if John ever mentioned my name to you during the years he had been in service. He’s told me all about you though, and it’s been a lot. We had been at the station for four years , and there hadn’t been a single day when he wouldn’t talk about you. John always used to ask me to tell you that. He used to keep joking that he never had the courage to say that himself to you.

We met on the very first day we had joined the company. I was working as the nurse in the army hospital. It was a broken nose that had brought him to the hospital, and a broken toe soon had him staying at the hospital for a couple of nights. That’s when we got to really know each other, swapping stories about each other’s lives.

I think it would be fair on my part to tell you a little about myself. I’m Chloe, from Devon, England. I know you and John are from New York, and that’s where you guys met before he joined the army. I know what you’re feeling at this moment, Jacqueline. John was my best friend here. I keep thinking how he was the one who used to be lying on the bed, and I’d be the one who’d have to keep his spirits up. I wish he was here right now, talking about you the way he always did. Somehow, I loved the stories he used to tell me about you.

I’m writing this letter to you, because John and I made a promise to each other. During the time that he stayed here, John and I made a pact – in case anything happened to either one of us, a letter, like this one here, would be written. I’m fulfilling that promise to John right now, as I’m sure he would have fulfilled his promise to me as well. Had it been him lying down here instead of me, I’m sure he would have been writing this letter to Kimmel, my fiancé.

John was a good man. He was a brave man; and he loved you very, very much. I don’t know if they’ve told you much about John’s stay here. Even if they did, I know it must have been mostly army mumbo jumbo.

John came here with a dream, to serve his country. To do the right thing, to make sure that he fights. He knew the reason for fighting. He knew why we must, always, keep fighting. He knew right from wrong. He knew good from bad, just from injustice. He had always known that even if he falls, the fight will not be over. He knew that when he falls, he must do so with pride and honor. Those were his principles, and he lived every word of them.

I met an officer of his battalion the other day, and he told me how he had died fighting. John was one of the first men to charge, in the face of blazing machine guns and shells. The officer told me how he created havoc in the minds of the opposing force, how one man alone, seemed enough to make an entire battalion retreat to where they came from.

I remember how he had taught me to be brave too. I used to be afraid of fighting, scared of the war, the bombs, the landmines, the shells. Scared of the bullets flying all around us, the smoke and the fire that surrounded us. I’ve never seen action the way John had, but the attack on the hospital had been scary enough for me. During those moments, it was John’s words that kept me alive, gave me strength. I was still scared, but John’s words was what had kept that fear in control.

John had been a good officer. He was gentle, and kind. He was brave, and noble. I wish he was still here, that someday, he would board a plane out of here and be on his way to New York City to meet you. Instead, it is the memories of a broken nurse that will greet you. I’m sorry for your loss, Jacqueline. I know how much you loved him. As for John, I still feel proud. For what he has done, for his country, for the world, for peace, for humanity. I salute him for his bravery.

I’m enclosing John’s favorite poem along with this letter. He had written and given it to me a few days before he left with his battalion. He told me that it would give me courage, for whatever may come. It helped me a lot, and I pass it on to you. For all the things that may come your way in the future.

I wish, someday, when I’ll be able to walk again, we shall meet. Looking forward eagerly to that day,

Love from,

Chloe Simons

Enclosed with the above letter was the following handwritten note:

My Boy Jack by Rudyard Kipling.

“Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

Dear Chloe,
I leave from the base tomorrow, and I wanted to give you something before I left. I hope those words will build the faith in your heart, as much as they do in mine. Remember the pact, Chloe. I hope to see you soon.
All the luck in the world,
From John.

The Right Words At The Right Time

It was a dark stormy night.

Well, actually, it wasn’t really so. Yet, metaphorically speaking, the dark storm was raging on inside me.

It’s strange how too much of information has the ability to cripple you mentally. It’s the closest I’d felt to a zombie. I didn’t like it.

I think it all happened with that broken stair at home. The same one that my mother had fallen down twice. It killed her the second time, instantly. That’s what the doctors told us later.

It had started out as quite a normal day. Let me make it a little better. Imagine the perfect family scene, if you will. Father, son and daughter sitting at the dining table enjoying a nice breakfast of toast and corn flakes.

Father (to son): You’re done with the paper there kid?

Son (to father): Here’s the business section for you, Pa. I’m reading the sports bit. Wait a bit, read that in the meantime.

The young daughter, in the meantime, is playing with her toast, and waiting for Mummy to come downstairs. She seems to need her mother’s help in having her breakfast.

Daughter (to father): Pa, what’s taking Mummy so long?

Father: She’ll be down real soon, honey. (to son) Why don’t you go check on her, see how much time she’d actually take.

Son (walking to the foot of the staircase and bellowing to his mother on the upper floor): Ma, breakfast’s getting cold! Come down, we’re waiting for you!

Mummy (shouting from the first floor): Coming, sweetheart.

The conversation ends there. For, as Mummy was coming down from the staircase, her foot caught in the crack on one of the stairs.

She fell.

***

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy unto himself the soul of our dearest sister, daughter, and mother, here departed; we therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things himself.”

The priest finished. The earth was thrown back into the dark grave with the dark coffin that held the body of our Mummy.

I had wanted to dig the grave for her myself, but I wasn’t allowed to do that. I had to make do with writing everything that the priest had said at the funeral by hand. My little tribute.

***

I knew I had to go into my parent’s room the moment we got back. It got the chills running down my spine, like a many legged creature running back and forth on my backbone. I remember standing a full minute in front of the door to their room, steeling myself to go in. Second by second, the minute was up, and I had to go in.

The room looked different, somehow. It’s been a day since she’d entered here. It knew, somehow, that one of the persons who used to live in that room wouldn’t come back again. The room knew.

The closet, the place I was most afraid of looking through the most. You see, I was close to my mother the way a son is supposed to be, but still, most of her life had been a mystery to me. Until now. I knew that the moment I opened that closet, at least some of those mysteries would come out.

This time, I didn’t want to wait the way I did outside the door. There was no real point in delaying this, I’d learnt it from experience. I went to the closet, and opened the door. Her clothes, her bags, her scent – it was all there.

So was her diary.

As I held that little black book in my hand, I realized that in here was all that there was to know of my mother. In that little black book were parts of her life that I’d never known. Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the diary.

It was blank, all except for two things. A few torn pages at the start of the diary, and a quote: “It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.”

I began the hunt for the missing pages.

***

Two hours later, after looking through almost the entire room for the missing pages, I finally found them, hidden in one of her old shoes. I unfolded the pages, and read the entries.

The first date on the diary was about 18 years ago.

“Dear Diary,

John’s in a bad mood right now, all because I told him to get the stair fixed. I don’t know how the stair got broken… just because I stay at home all the time doesn’t mean that I would know all about what goes on in the house all the time! I mean, it just isn’t fair, is it?

I know I shouldn’t cry. I know this is something very silly to be so upset about. Still, I sometimes wish that John would be a little more understanding. It’s as if he doesn’t realize that I know how hard he’s working.

I better go, I shouldn’t let John catch me like this. It’s been a while since I’ve acted like a silly schoolgirl, and I feel stupid about it already. I know John loves me, I know we’ll work this fight out. I love him too, after all.”

“Dear Diary,

It’s been a while now, and the stair still hasn’t been fixed. I don’t know what’s up with John lately, he keeps forgetting that I’ve told him to get that stair fixed so many times. I just don’t know what to do with him. I almost fell down today when I stumbled. Good thing Marco was there to catch me as I fell.

I wonder when I’ll be able to tell John how important it is to get that stair fixed. He doesn’t seem to understand, especially now that Marco’s around. Sure, they’re best buddies and all, but does that really mean you’ll forget your wife, your house, everything?”

“Dear Diary,

The stair still hasn’t been fixed, and John and I fought again over it. I know it seems silly to fight over something as insignificant as a stair, but… really, sometimes John can get me all riled up. It’s just so -

Had to go away for a bit there. Marco came up to say goodnight, see if I’m fine. John’s out on the porch with his whisky and his cigar, while his wife waits patiently for him to come back.

I don’t know if John sent Marco up or not, but all he did was tell me what an awesome guy John is. Yeah, as if I couldn’t see that myself. But Marco was all about how cool John used to be as a kid, and how much fun those two used to have. He kept on and on about giving John another chance, that he was actually sorry about what happened. He even said he’ll talk to John, see if that’ll get him to fix up the stair.

I don’t even know why I’m listening to Marco so much. I mean, I don’t really know that guy all that well…”

“Dear Diary,

It’s been a week since Marco’s been around, and I don’t think I’ve been this happy. Not since I married John, at least. I know it doesn’t sound right, but I like Marco. As a friend of course, which is just fine. He’s like one of the best friends I’ve had my whole life, and I can feel that he really understands me too.

Things have been a lot smoother with John as well, all thanks to Marco. I told you, he’s an amazing guy!”

“Dear Diary,

I think I’m falling in love with Marco. Call me crazy, but I think he knows about it. Call me crazier, but I think he’s falling in love with me too.

Someone’s here. I gotta go.”

“Dear Diary,

I’m a horrible woman. I wish I could just erase the last two hours of my life. I’m a bad person, really bad. I’m married, to John! Marco’s best friend!

How could I let this happen? With Marco? I’m a horrible woman – “

“Dear Diary,

Marco left today, because of me. I’m pregnant, with his child. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say. I know John would be happy, he won’t suspect anything.

It’ll just be me, who is going to have to live with that terrible secret, all my life.”

I was numb till the time I reached here. There was one last entry, but this one was folded into half. Just like that, half of my mind wanted to open that last sheet of paper, while the other half just wanted to let it be. With shaking hands, I opened the piece of paper.

 

“It’s been nine months since Marco left us and disappeared. Even John doesn’t know where he is. It’s been so long since we’ve heard from him.

He probably doesn’t know why I want to meet him so badly right now. My son was born today, and his eyes are just like Marco’s. The rest of him, thankfully, is all me. I don’t think John noticed it.

I wanted to name him Marco, or something similar. Like Marcus. Only, I couldn’t.

We named him Matthew. Maybe, someday, he will be able to forgive me for what I have done.

The stair still hasn’t been fixed. I’ve stopped telling John to get it fixed. Still, it’s not fair on my part to put the blame of my sins to the broken staircase.”

The small piece of paper slipped from my hands, and fluttered to the floor. I made no attempt to catch it. There was no real point to it anymore.

***

I had to get out of the stifling house. The same house that had seen it all happen. Who was I? Where did I come from, really? The man I called my father all these years, who was he? Where was my real father? I felt lost and confused. I had no idea who I was, much less where I was going.

I walked right into a smelly, drunk man.

“Watch where you’re going, you blind bastard!” he slurred, as he stumbled on the road.

I don’t think he had any idea how close to the truth he was. My truth, my real identity.