Hear me, Lord Lytton

I wake with a jolt and put out a hand to feel Payal close to me. Thank goodness, she’s safe, wrapped in her blanket, head perched on her pillow. She’s breathing well.
The screams of the ambulance slowly ebb away and I catch my breath. Thank goodness all is well. I turn on the light and I notice the book on the bedside table reading “For love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” ~ Kahlil Gibran.

I pick it up and unintentionally flip open the page to something I had written two weeks after Shiv…

Hear me, Lord Lytton; it’s over. Our cruise together. I’ll have to continue alone. Half empty, half naked.
I’m at a complete loss as to what I should write. Perhaps I should talk about my emotions?
They are all muddled up.
Had Shiv been here, he would have directed my attention to my aim. He would have sat close watching me dissect emotions, needling through one thought after another; meanwhile the crumpled chit and the battered plastic of my pen would mate in an uninterrupted rhythm of passion. Oh the passion for that very touch that settled in our drifting bubble is someplace else, entombed in silence, lost in oblivion. Plus, Lord Lytton, they say I will never hold Shiv again.
Lord Lytton, I’m also rid of my long, dark hair. They talk of customs to reason it out with me. Shiv liked them loose, he caressed inarticulate whispers through them, pouring into me the lyric of love while I relished in the divineness of his arms. I am at a loss of words, Lord Lytton. Neither word nor brush will do justice in aptly depicting that thing in me that stirs me every now and then. Thing, the most convenient word for what’s inside of me. I have not a name for it.
Lord Lytton, they talk about the woman who is widowed within six months of her marriage. They say it’ll pass, they talk of re-partnering, they thank god for not bestowing the poor girl with a child from her dead…

I shut the diary; I cannot bear reading further. It pains me to think of him. Does it make sense if I say I feel sorry for him rather than for myself? At least I am the survivor, I didn’t have to experience a bike crash and die amidst doctors and sharp medical equipments in an ambulance away from my people. At least my body wasn’t shrouded in blood and gunny when delivered to my family.

The evening I brought Payal home, the joy in me pierced to be shared. Though I breathed widowhood, there was a new identity that carved itself into my soul. Widow I am, but I am also a mother.
I addressed his photograph with our three month old baby asleep in my arms.
“Shiv, I am not sure if they are right about dead people becoming stars and looking down upon the living. But today, I feel more connected with you. I wish you heard me narrate to you stories when I was Payal’s caretaker at the adoption agency. I also wish you sat with me throughout the adoption process. But I know you’re crying tears of joy and pride for the three of us from above. She will know you. She will call you her father and be immensely proud of the thirty years of your accomplishments. Our family is complete. Happiness is you by our side. Contentment is this metaphysical connection the three of us are sharing.”

Talk on, please?

“So how much have you written in the past year, Sia?”
“Not much, Ashar. Just the occasional blogging apart from daily journaling.”
“Uh-huh?”
I Smiled.

“What’re you thinking, Sia?”
“Nothing.”
“Something. Saying nothing would be a lie.”
Pregnant pause…

“Sia, May I know?”
“Yeah… Um… No!”
“Embarrassed of the thought?”
“Juvenile thought.”
“Well, if you think its juvenile, it’s okay to be embarrassed of it.”
“Okay?”
“But if you need help, there’s no shame in asking for it. I know the ego will stir while asking for help; you’ll feel silly and worry if you’re judged. And I know you know all this, but I think we all need the occasional affirmation that feeling doubtful about one’s thoughts is normal.”
“So does that mean you won’t judge if I share?”
“How can I promise you when I can’t control my own thoughts? But trust me on this; I don’t want to judge you. I want to hear you and help if I can. But this isn’t me speaking. These are the values my elders passed on to me that are showing me the light. And after hearing you, I may change my mind. How? That I cannot say, but all I can do for you is to promise you I’ll try and be as supportive as I can, that, if you want to share with me.”
Silence fell.
“Should I be proud of myself that I’m being honest to goodness with you? I feel funny. But you know what, Sia? I despise counselors who promise to never divulge nor judge. They’re humans first, counselors later. And I’m sure they talk of their clients to their spouses, friends and colleagues… They spout out details and save the identity and are eternally proud of themselves. What a noble profession!”
I nodded. My throat knotted.
“Ashar, are you free for the day?”
“I don’t have plans for the day. What can I do for you?”
“Sit with me? Uh… that look makes me nervous.”
“I’ll sit with you but what’re we doing?”
“Sitting… and I could make you noodles and there’s some orange juice.”
“Wow. I’m up for food.”
“Uncertain.”
“What’s uncertain, Sia?”
“Future.”
“Spot on! You seem inspired by me already, my love.”
“Ha-ha. You sit here while I go and make noodles for us?”
“I’ll come with you. As much as I like for people to cook for me and serve me in bed, what will I do all alone in your room? Besides, your roommate might just walk in to find a male stranger on her roommate’s bed. That’d be weird.”
“You’re a self-help guide!”
“Nay. I’m big hearted with words, you see? I give more than I can take. To be precise, I talk to good listeners. I’m a pathetic debater and if someone who is as much or more talkative than me sits with me, I shut up like a chicken!”
“Talk on, please?”