The Anniversary

I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes. She wasn’t even aware of her surroundings. She stared blankly at the ceiling. I knew she didn’t remember. I could not blame her. Ours wasn’t a happy, lovey-dovey relationship. I wasn’t fair with her and I knew it. But I would have liked to talk about it with her only if she would allow. She had given up talking, long back. That time, I used to go out a lot with Stuti. Stuti was of course more than just an office colleague. She was beautiful. I was sinful. We bonded well. My wife stopped talking, ever since she found out. Now, she wasn’t like this. She talked a lot in her school and college days. She talked all the time. Even when she was in her emo, mute mode, she would come and talk to me. I was always her best friend.  She still is mine.

I walked and stood in front of her armchair to draw her attention. She still didn’t look at me. I adjusted my specs and looked at her properly. She wasn’t staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were closed. She was sleeping, with her face upwards. She did this a lot, lately. Sleeping. When we both retired and had nothing to say to each other, we found our respective, suitable activities. I took to television soaps and telephone calls. My wife chose knitting, reading and sleeping. These days, I found myself watching her a lot, while she slept. She had never been beautiful, in her life. She was small and thin. She had an average nose and big eyes. Yet when she smiled, the eyes lit up like stars. Those who knew her well, couldn’t help but fall in love with her smile. It was so honest, so loving. There wasn’t a hint of pretense in that smile. She didn’t smile anymore. When she slept, I wished for that smile. Why couldn’t she ever have a good dream? That would make her smile in sleep, at least.

Rain fell in a steady monotony, outside. The skin drenched crows had taken shelter in the Swarnachampa tree. Today was a Sunday. My wife used to love rainy Sundays. I loved the gorom chowmein and chilly chiken she made for rainy days. She was a marvelous cook. It came to her naturally. With the most ordinary ingredients, she could cook up the most extraordinary dishes. Stuti couldn’t cook a thing except for Maggi. She always urged me to take her out. It isn’t that I didn’t like going out with her. She was beautiful. I was sinful. We bonded well.

I never believed in commitment. I was open minded and thought that one could fall in love over and over again. I fell in love for seven times, in my entire life. My wife accepted it all, silently. I thought she was weak. I thought that she let me get away because she was dependent on me. Maybe she was. When her sister got to know about Stuti, she asked her to move out, immediately. Her brother-in-law started looking for flats. My wife continued to stay with me. She was like a shadow, back then. I was hardly aware of her existence in the house. She was silent and still most of the time.

The best gift that she ever gave me was a bundle of little hands, feet and an extraordinarily beautiful face. It was my daughter. She had the looks of me and the personality of her mother. She was fifteen when Stuti happened. She lived like a shadow, as well, rarely speaking to me or her mother. Once she completed her graduation, she left the city to pursue her dreams of becoming a journalist. She married and worked hard. She ceased to live like a shadow. I feel grateful that at least my daughter’s life was not ruined by me.

But today was special. I had to talk to her. I knew she would forgive me. She loved me. She depended on me. I was the father of her child. I would cry out loud to her and admit my mistakes. I would beg forgiveness, for my sins. She was a good person. She would grant me a second chance.

I put my hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. She opened her eyes, slowly.

“

Is it lunchtime, already? I should have known,” she muttered to herself
 

“No, Meghna. It is just eleven. I needed to talk to you,” I took her hands. They were cold and stiff. She looked away.

“Meghna. Do you remember what date it is, today?” I asked her, excitedly

No answer.

“Meghna, today is the tenth of July. We got married on this day, fifty years back. Happy anniversary, love,” I squeezed her hands

Meghna didn’t react. She gazed blankly out of the window, her hands as cold as ice.

“I love you. I always have. I always will. I am sorry for the wrong things that I have done. You are my best friend, the mother of my child, the best wife ever. I was wrong, Meghna. I was always wrong. Forgive me?” The last two words came out in squeaks.

Meghna continued to maintain her silence.

I tried to pull her close to me. She was stiff and rigid. She didn’t budge from her chair.

“Please?” I begged.

She sat like a statue, her gaze fixed on the swarnachampa tree. For an instance I considered the fact that Meghna had gone dumb.

“I need to make rice, for lunch,” she said to no one and got up

Adjusting her saree, she slowly walked towards the kitchen. I stared after her, helplessly. She had left me, long back. Only, I was heavily dependent on her. All I could do was sink into the couch, hide my face and cry like a ten year old.