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.”
