It was well past midnight when I heard a soft splitter splatter against the pane of glass on my window. I rolled closer to the window and listened carefully. It took a while to realize that it was the heavy water droplets of rain that were making the sound. I threw the window open and saw that it was raining rather heavily. It was unusually quiet for such a heavy rain. Rain like alcohol amplifies emotions. It makes a happy man happier and it makes a sad man miserable. I was sad and as I watched the droplets falls to the ground softly I felt increasingly sad. It was the first rain after Kamala's death. It had rained heavily on the day Kamala died. Kamala and rain were synonymous to me and I could never think of one without thinking of the other. Rain was nothing more to me than an excuse to wake up late until I married Kamala. Rain was a character for her and a part of her life and existence.
Kamala waited eagerly for the monsoons each year and she would stay awake late for invariably the first monsoon rain always came in the night. She would sit by the window and stretch her arms outside the window and feel the cold droplets on her skin. Rain always made Kamala happy irrespective of what mood she was in. She was not someone who hummed or sung much but on the day of the first monsoon rain she hummed. I started liking the rains after I married Kamala but not quite like how she did. I liked it more when it rained in the nights and when I was indoors and complained when I had to travel in the rain or when a late afternoon summer rain caught me on the road by surprise. Kamala though loved rain unconditionally and nothing about the rain inconvenienced her. Life was a celebration for her and the rains enhanced the colors and flavors of life like nothing else did.
Kamala was tested positive for cervical cancer and when I had broken the dreaded news to her on a Tuesday afternoon she had looked into to my eyes and asked if she would be alive to see it rain one last time. The battle against cancer did not wipe the smile off her face and although she suffered physically and was turning frightening frail she managed to retain the gleam in her eyes. The monsoons were delayed that year and for the first time I feared if she would die before it rained and I felt indescribably helpless.
To be continued....
8 comments:
:-( Fact or fiction? I will tell you my full comment personally, if I get a chance.
Fiction of course! You think I had an ex-wife about whom I didn't mention to you???
Silly,it could have been factual or at least inspired by some facts but not necessarily your story. :-) The way you began the story was riveting,and had that honest appeal. So if it is a storytelling technique, it was effective. But hey you know me, I am sucker for those heart wrenching stories.Besides, after knowing you for 2 years, I think you would have mentioned about an ex-wife if there was one. Hmmmm..... Let me see if the continuation will keep me interested. Nice to see that you have written something new and I see that you're getting good at it.
I must tell you that you write wonderfully. I dont know if it is a hobby or whether you intend to take it up full time, but I must say, do it more often and for a bigger audience. The treatment is class and though it may not be Nobel prize material, compares with the best I have read - and that icludes Sujata, some books of Balakumaran (those in which he doesnt rant and ramble)etc. The narrative has body and soul both, but more of soul. Put in equal amount of body. I am not able to put my mind into writing these days. Sad but I would have loved to get on with what I consider my autobiography - my blog. Love to see more of you in print. This is a dispassionate criticism and has nothing whatsoever to do with our relationship.
Was I strong enough to bear my impending loss and her pain too? Am I enough? Did I need to bring in others from Kamala's past life to help her tide over the gap from this world to the next?? Questions, forming a procession in my cluttered brain.
Kamala had always avoided refering to her past life during her brief years with me. Initially I had probed, but eventually I let things be. There was no point in digging up painful memories from the past. Kamala was married and had a son and a daughter from her previous marriage. I knew next to nothing about that marriage but had heard that they were incompatible in more ways than one. Of late, I had seen a wistful look in her doe like eyes. Was she reminiscing about her life with her first husband? Did she yearn to see her children before she died? I couldnt ask her in her moment of grief what I could not ask her in her joy.
Thank you for your comments. It surely will give me the oomph to continue writing. This story is a translation of one of my tamil short stories and I hope to complete it in a month or two. Now that I am a character in your own blog I am hoping to get some traffic into my blog to give me reason to keep it active.
When I mentioned 'soul and body' of a story, I thought I will give an example of what I meant by body when I posted my second comment. I was not aware it was a story that you had already written in Tamil. Carry on nevertheless. As to psts pertaining to me, please feel free to comment on my blog and add to it your own impressions.
You need to finish this :-) For yourself and for all of us :-)
Best,
Aparna
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