A Heart of Stone with a Coat of Gold

Scratched Hearts

Neel gazed up from the windshield; the sea-blue sky peeked among the interstices of the departing clouds, while the evening sun, which had now turned a deep shade of crimson, bid its final sombre farewell. It had been a sad day for the ball of fire; he had hardly any work done between the rains and now the silvery night guard about to snatch away his shift.

It had been the same story for Neel: Bibek hadn’t returned and he had whiled away his time staring mindlessly at the interiors: the half-leather half-rexine seats, the dull matted molded plastic, and the glossy polished dashboard with the wretched photo.

After the old man had left, he had formulated angry retorts in his mind to shoot when he came back. Sadly they were like froth which bubbles a lot, but quickly fades away. So soon, he was left with nothing a growing gnawing solitude. 

The day had started normally for him. His schedule for the whole day was packed—like air stuffed in a balloon—and yet, like always, he felt hollow, and empty. And although there had been a small change in his plans; when to humor his wife he had agreed to accompany her, but he still could do a lot on the way: Calls, emails, spreadsheets. He could redirect the work; he could berate his juniors. The plans had been all been in place, but they had been all for naught. 

He felt different; he felt uneasy. But why? 

Maybe it was the bird. The dance had elated him at first and he had remembered—a time when he had been someone else once upon a time—and not this husk of a man, and a time when she had been happy with him once upon a time. But the memory- it had jogged something else with it, a foreboding or maybe some strange longing? 

His hand slipped into his pocket and he took out his wallet, fidgeting with it. Faded out at most of the places, it was a flimsy piece of leather, the edges frayed, the front scratched; it was an object almost unbecoming of the VP, yet his thumb caressed it, with tenderness. 

Shruti had bought it for him. It had been their anniversary, and he had gifted her a necklace: a perfunctory gesture every year. When he had seen his gift, the mediocre-quality leather with the bird engraving, he hadn't tried at all to disguise his displeasure. They both had been over the point of pretending long time back since the day their child died. She had first tried to talk, then she had fought, and finally, she had cried and given up; in all her endeavours all she had gotten from him was his silence. 

Yet, that day she had been silent when he had told her he didn't like it, but as he had looked at her and saw; her eyes were glazed, with a coat of sadness, and pity. He had been puzzled then but now he remembered, and now he understood. 

They dying red embers of the sun flashed the last time, angling inside the winded-down window and shone from a single solitary patch on the wallet which was still glossy; the light reflected from the patch onto the photograph.   

The ghosts in the photo, basking in red, sneered at him, mocking him. 

When Bibek had reminded him of Anu during their conversation, her face had flashed in front of him; eerily, in her sadness, it had almost been a mirage of Shruti's.

The unease grew; now it almost was gnawing at him. 

All of a sudden, he snaked his hand under the loose Kurta and gently traced the scars at his back; light aberrations flowing like a river on the fleshy landscape. There was no blood; for a second he was relieved but as he moved his fingers up to see closely, they got tinged with the red reflecting form around. 

'You cannot escape it ever, ' His father's voice told him. 

Shaking his head he got out of the car. He cast a long shadowy glance at the tall-iron gates across the road, and from the distance the perpendicular bars were caving in, beckoning him.