That small flickering flame of the lit up candle was my only source of light in our 'used to be living room'. The room looked warm but somewhat incomplete because I knew he wasn't there with me rejoicing the moment, looking at me, making me believe that I look beautiful. The odor of the new white curtains and the room freshener filled up the room. The flame became still after the push of a slight wind. I kept waiting for him knowing that the doorbell won't ring and he wouldn't hug me the moment he enters with a bouquet of lavenders and orchids, my favorite, for our twenty third wedding anniversary or my birthday which coincidentally fall on the same day. Nor, I had any intuition of a vagary. Even the old white crockery with the same silver cutlery, bought from London, especially for me, never broke for it always had faith as me, that someday he will arrive and have the most delicious egg curry with rice, made by his wife's hands, on it. In the reminiscence of the moment when he picked up his glass of wine and clinked it with my raised glass and said in a dramatic tone 'Cheers to my lovely wife' with a deep hum that melted my heart as the wax of the candle, I couldn't think of anything else while quietly serving myself alone the same egg curry and rice made habitual for anniversaries. All I could hear was the striking of forks and knives and plates and glasses for the room wasn't filled with the little talks with laughter, irony, gentle tease and love. Being alone at home, having dinner alone, never seemed new to me because I had been doing the same every day, since past 20 years, after he was imprisoned. The dark circles under my eyes were the proof of all the nights I'd stayed awake, praying for him, pleading for him with every pulse of my heart. The hollow-cheeked face with slight freckles under my eyes on a pasty complexion with empty eyes which had lost its life, soulless and dull, expressed the downheartedness I had. The skinny physique I had acquired in the past twenty years was because of him, who wasn't here to take care of me. The cropped brunette hair, left dry and frizzy sought for moisture, but were left uncared and neglected for he wasn't there to appreciate the long, luxuriant hair I once used to have. When I somehow managed to take a nap, he chased me in my dreams. His face, it haunted me and all the memories came back at the speed of light and hit me on my chest like an arrow released by a bow. Those memories made me slip into insanity. His voice resounded in my head and I yearned to hear it once again. I couldn't help needing him, but I was desperately trying to hang on to what I had left of my sanity. I'd not only lost him, I'd lost myself. I had unwittingly given all of myself to him. And now that he'd gone, I was left home alone and all the feelings of sadness and emptiness flooded and overwhelmed me at intervals. I wanted to break my leg and hit my stomach and just fall down from the railing of our apartment and somehow kill myself. At times when I used to lose all faith, I literally took the knife and started to cut my skin and pinch my arms and hit my head and my back against the wall. Once, my neighbors came running home when I tried to slit my wrist with a sharp blade. They took me to the hospital and afforded the charges, but this kind of psychotic behavior of me didn't cease as I became out of control just after a few weeks when again my neighbors helped me to bring me back to my senses. I threw and crashed all the materialistic things and appliances. I tore all my clothes and broke all the mirrors and crockery except the white one on which the egg curry was supposed to be served. The neighbors were fed up of helping me so they brought up complains every other day. I nodded to them making sure that it won't happen again and I would take care but the capricious feeling of self-harm didn't stop and I again ended up doing the same all over again. The pain was a razor and it was too hard to come out of the agony in the beginning. But gradually as I resumed growing up, I learned to deal with things maturely. I realized that he would not appreciate my deeds and would be cross with me if I continued to do so. I had finally figured out my goal -- to be a survivor; to persist; to bite the bullet! And to follow so, I had to be a warrior. As I tended to reach my 40s, I became quieter and refrained myself from talking to people because all they would finally end up in talking would be of my husband's case. It was better to persevere life than to complain about the loneliness for I knew no one could ever fill the space I had in my heart for him.
