Breathe

01. Radha Bose

 Black and white. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Life and death. Is there even a difference anymore? When all roads lead to death and self-destruction, is there even a point in choosing one to go down? I had a chance to do the right thing, to make the right choice, to set things right. I chose not to.

Radha, my daughter, I know things haven't been easy between us...

I close my eyes, and all I hear is her voice.

Meet me tomorrow at our favorite restaurant. 8 pm. I'll be waiting. I... I love you. Your mother loves you. I know I never say that, but it's always there, right beneath the surface. I love you.

When I saw that note slid underneath my office door, I tore it up and dumped the pieces into the dustbin. I forgot all about it. She did not call me the next day, or the day after, or the day after. She did not call me ever again. I found out later that the reason she wanted to meet me was to say her goodbyes.

She was dying.

And I threw away her final letter to me.

Even as my throat chokes up, I know that I should not feel any guilt. She was an asshole of a mother who never cared about me, who never wanted me, who always treated me like a toy. She cheated on my dad more times than I can count. She destroyed both our lives, and yet I feel a deep sense of remorse over her death.

Smoke billows from my slightly parted lips as I stare at the cigarette in my hand. A part of me hates her for not telling me about her disease, but even if she had, would it have made a difference? Would I have put aside my anger and met her?

Glancing at my watch, I learn that it is five minutes past nine at night. Even though I know I should not – I am on assignment, after all – I reach into my purse, take out the nip of whiskey that I always keep on hand, and gulp down half of it in one go. Ignoring the judgemental eyes of everyone around me, I drown the rest, grimace, and put the now empty bottle back into my purse. Soon, the incomparable relief of inhibitions lowered and distressing thoughts dispelled will seep throughout my veins.

A second later, my target comes out of the restaurant he and two of his friends had ducked into an hour ago. They had taken up the last vacant table, which precluded my entering the place and eavesdropping on them. So I chose instead to smoke at a roadside shack opposite the restaurant, and somehow began to drown in sepulchral recollections of a mother I would like nothing better than to forget.

Now, I get to my feet and, paying for the cigarettes, set off after the three men. They are clearly drunk, paying no heed to the tuts and disapproving grunts of passers-by; they stagger and stumble their way past the Madurdaha post office, and onto the Anandapur High Road. Cars and two-wheelers whoosh past the bumbling men, who stand in a triangle and chatter away. Several people turn their faces in disgust before crossing the road, but the trio keep their voices defiantly raised.

Finally, after about ten minutes, they flag down a passing government bus headed for Chingrighata, and get on. I follow suit. By now the effects of the whiskey have settled in; I feel lighter, more relaxed. The bus is almost empty; save for a few people at the front and a 20-something woman sitting near the back, there are no passengers.

The woman is quite pretty. She is dressed in a blue top and dark, ripped jeans, with long, brown-streaked hair swaying behind her in the wind. Just as I had feared, the men take their seats behind her; two of them sit directly behind her, and one in the adjacent row. Their focus squarely on the attractive woman in front of them, none of them notice me slinking into a last-row seat.

Chilly January winds blast my neck, forcing me to readjust my scarf. I am dressed as I always am – dark t-shirt, dark jeans, dark coat and a dark scarf. My elbow-length dyed red hair is loose, providing my ears some degree of protection against the cold.