I was at my neighbor's house, who was pretty close to me. She, her name was Rab, was like a sister I never had, a sister I never wanted to have yet craved for eventually. We were playing carom where she'd always trick me to win. I always suspected her winning yet never let a sigh get uttered since I had nobody else to play with. Few minutes after of black and white coins getting stroked at the sides, I made a strike to get a black coin into the net stuck at the edge. I saw the way she stared at me, it was enough to show her displeasure with my win- though it was only one black coin that had gone through the half-torn net.
As I write this, I recall my smile at her jealous face which still stares at me whilst I walk on the road that parts into two paths, we never smile at each other or even greet, things have changed now; she does not have to pretend to love me because my mother had died long back to even notice her disguised hatred in a face sweet as sugar yet fatal as evil.
After winning a game against her I heard shrill voices, cries perhaps of women whom I did not see; how would I? I was locked up in a room playing carom with a girl I loved who did not love me back. All went radio silent for moment but I recall hearing footsteps of a living ghost, they were very rusty and slow at first but I had started to hear loud breaths of a man whom I knew yet still I did not know. He came close and took a deep sigh- I had then seen a sense of fear and a feeling of loss in his eyes. As he opened his mouth to whisper words that later left me hunched, I had taken in a smell of the stink of cigarettes that also aired of death. And even though he said it loud and clear for me to hear; my ears heard the words that had got faded after seconds of them being spoken.
'Babai, maa bhagawan er kacche chole gache!' (Dear, your mother has gone into heaven) -he exclaimed.
YOU ARE READING
A Man I (Did Not) Know.
Non-FictionAfter my mother's death in 2011, I gradually lost my father. I saw his soul churning from my finger-gaps as I tried to hold his hand. Recalling his hard survival through an un-ending phase called life, a memory of mine dedicated to him.