INNOCENCE LOST (Rewriting)

5 :HAUNTING PAST:

Fine grains of sand blew past, the air scorched my cheeks dry. Speeding wheels flew a cloud of dirt. Siddhartha’s hands skillfully manoeuvred the road as small pebbles grounded to dust. He coughed a few times, blinked and cleared his nose while the gravelly path wound in curves like a coiled snake. It ran for miles up and down, up and down—a miniature rollercoaster. And we followed the trail.

A few yellowed leaves invaded our privacy, settled on the inch of space between me and the gear. Siddhartha sneezed and coughed again—twice in a row, fanned his fingers to ward off the dirt, or a bit of the heat or both.

My lips pursed into a condescending sneer.

Poor people’s road and my hubby are a match made in heaven.

He picked up the leaves and threw them out, one crumbled to powder. It hadn’t rained in a weak probably and the weather sweltered in temperatures above thirty-eight. I had covered my head with a cotton scarf, my ponytail standing out like a deer’s horn.

“I need to switch the air conditioner on. Close the windows, Sreya. Please! This heat will kill me otherwise.”

Typical rich kid syndrome.

Son grows up with a stack of notes under the bed and bloody momma pampers him to death!

My ears heard and the mind agreed but the lids refused to open.

A little teasing is good. It adds to the chemistry.

“Sreya! Are you listening? Please, it’s too hot in here.”

Fluttering my lashes, I yawned and stretched. It wasn’t quite hard to feign sleep. Rolling my eyes I obliged, now that he almost pleaded. I often enjoy the content imploration gives. The emotional appeal, the want, the fervour—there is joy in feeling needed, beseeched.

I smiled.

We zoomed past the train station, the railway platform stood with austere patience as usual. It never smiled, never breathed, never frowned; there was a complete absence of life and light. A rusty tin plate hung from a metal pole, its condition as dishevelled as the deteriorating health of an octogenarian. Fading black paint curved into letters—Swarupnagar it read in Bengali. To whom it declared its name nobody knew, none cared. Our house was half an hour walk from here, by car, it could take fifteen minutes at the most.

Seven days in the city and my change of taste was evident. No wonder I always wanted to get out of this dungeon, it suffocated me. I thirsted after the charms that lay beyond. The ones I grew up listening about, the pictures I saw, the paper cuttings I had, the stories I read.

I sighed.

My wish got fulfilled but not in a way I envisioned.

Are dreams meant to be broken?

 

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Jadidang Hridayang Tabo

Todidong Hridoyong Mamo

“As long as I reside in your heart, so long you’ll reside in mine.”

This mantra wove two souls into one a week before, it was to remain so till death did us apart. I didn’t know who was to die or when, me before him or him before me, but one thing was certain—I could very well be dead, at least a part of me had.

But, death means resurrection. And resurrection gives you hope, a meaning, an opportunity. Another chance to live, not just survive.

“They are here! They are here! Blow the conch!”