Forget-Me-Not: Taste of Freedom

Chapter One

Chapter One

October 2012

      Abhay Bakshi dragged himself off the bed, not unaware of the extra effort it took to wake up each morning. On this particular Sunday, the sun was still barely over the horizon and cottony clouds covered the dull sky. The monotone beep of the alarm clock filled the silence in his room. His feet touched the wooden flooring—not cold, not hot. Just harsh. Bare white walls stared back at him, reminding him that there was nothing to look at anymore. The walls hadn't always remained bare, though—there was a time when they were covered with photo frames, showcasing nick knacks on the shelves and a wind chime that hung from the ceiling. Ananya hated bare walls. It was she who'd suggested they fill one whole wall with their pictures. Now there were no pictures... and no Ananya.

      It felt like she'd sucked the life out from the house when she went, and from him too.

      He hadn't spent much time in their room, or in their house either. Ever since the funeral two weeks ago, he'd made the office his permanent resting place. He worked incessantly from morning to noon, noon to night until there was no energy left in his muscles to do any more. Sometimes, he spent entire nights gazing out of his office window, watching the partly deserted streets and the lonesome wanderers that dotted them. Home was no longer home... he had no reason to go back there, no one who would be waiting for him to return. But his housekeeper had called him yesterday, saying that he had a parcel waiting for him which had come in the courier. When he'd asked her who it was from, she'd said in a puzzled voice that there was neither address nor the sender's name. Just a white envelope with his name on it and a small box.

       Now, as he looked at the envelope and the box lying on his bedside table, he felt another pang in his chest. His wife's handwriting stared back at him, its red ink the only spot of colour in his life. Slowly, he got out of bed and folded the bed covers, straightening the crumpled bedsheet. He hadn't seen what was inside; he'd waited for morning to do that. Well, morning was here. No more running, No more escape.

       After he made the bed, he went to the bathroom to get ready. Ever since she was gone, these daily motions had become a necessary evil rather than the signal of a new day. But this morning, despite the gloom that had settled like dust over the whole house and him, he felt a sliver of emotion. He felt like he wanted to look forward to something—the letter that Ananya had sent him through the courier. He wondered what it could mean... wondered why she hadn't just told him instead of taking the pain to arrange a different means. He remembered their last night together, remembered how he'd sat by her bedside, holding her hand, as they counted the seconds until they'd have to say goodbye.

      She hadn't said anything at all. Those final moments, his final memories of her, were those of silence. And silence was not Ananya's forte. He realized that now, as he thought of her letter. There was something she'd wanted to say, something she'd wanted to do, but she'd waited for... what? Why had he gotten the letter now? What could it mean?

       Abhay dried his face and avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror. When he came out, his eyes went straight to the bedside table. It was bare, just like the walls, except for his parcel. The housekeeper had been instructed to leave her mistress's possessions as they were. However, he'd taken down all the photos from their room and piled them in a drawer instead. He couldn't bear to look at her smiling face. He couldn't bear to see so much of life when there was none left... she was gone. It had only felt right to make it known.

       For the first time in two weeks, he went to their cupboard and opened it. The clothes still smelled of her... her perfume filled the air around him, reminding him that she'd been there. He ignored her side of the cupboard and pulled out a clean, starched shirt and pants from his pile. Suddenly, after so many days of being away from home, after so many hours of endless work, he felt like he didn't want to do anything. He was exhausted. He just wanted to be.