Here we are.

So, here we are. I lie in my bed, I am still, except for the jabbing of the pulse in my throat. I hear the washing of steel utensils, clanging together as they are carelessly dumped upon each other. I hear the rotting metal sounds of the old lift as it moves up and down the pit of this building. I hear the children shouting to each other, trying to get a last game in before they are dragged to their tables with math problems and history dates. I hear click-clack electric sounds of lights and fans in the other rooms, I know there’s nobody else at home, I am externalizing the nervous sounds of my veins as they burst with my own charged blood.

I try to calm myself. Other people have gone through this. I have read it in newspapers and seen it on television. Faced with a similar predicament, they had to make a choice. Even with all their indecision and weakness that caused them so much suffering, they suddenly found the strength to end it. They had a thought, they established a method, they conceived of a plan and finally, they actually implemented it. I tell myself, these are all people like me, people who accomplished nothing, but in one brilliant act of defiance found a side to themselves they never thought existed.

I imagine the neighbors coming to know of all this. I imagine them shaking their troubled, heavy heads, making tch-tch noises with their disapproving tongues. I imagine them putting together the pieces of the tragedy over dinner, relishing it in an uncomfortable way, how close they were to the whole thing as the events unfolded. I imagine them relaying the information to their friends and relatives, adding their opinion of me, of him, from our brief encounters through half-closed doors, through some hasty exchange of niceties.

If they knew it right now, would they want to prevent it, would they come to me and ask me not to go through with it? Would they share their private marital grief with me? Would they offer me solutions, ask me to wait it out, because whatever issues we may have, it all goes away eventually. Would they accuse me of being a coward? Would they say that this is wrong, it’s a crime, a punishable offence under law?

The truth is, I am a coward and this is wrong. However, I see no other way out. The knife has serrated edges, but it’s clean. It shows me a distorted reflection of myself. It shines in a sinister way. It will be effective, only if plunged several times. I haven’t eaten since morning. I wouldn’t be able to hold anything down anyway. I have made him dinner. All his favorite things, I thought it could be my last gift to him.

And then, I can’t help but think of him. I think of his reluctant smile, his fingers sweeping back the mop of thick, jet-black hair, I think of his quiet voice, I think of how I had dismissed him for being the ordinary, uninteresting good guy. I clutch my womb, now empty of the shameful mistake I made in my youth, all that adulation and attention that I had always craved for, that I had never received at home, how it found me, how it blinded me, how I fell and no one came, except him. For the first few years, I floated on a cloud of gentle, peaceful surrender. I was so surprised by his sudden transformation into this shining, powerful, golden warrior that I didn’t notice the squalor, the decline of my body, the difficulties of coping with a child, a husband and a kitchen.

I was the cause of it all. He no longer smiled, he no longer swept his fingers across his hair, he no longer fought for me and my happiness. He thought I was responsible. I lost the baby, he had loved her more than he loved me. I feel the guilt like stones weighing down my back, my spine cracks and gives way. I know deep down it probably isn’t my fault, I hadn’t done it deliberately. I am just so terrible at handling life, in one moment of carelessness, all that I consider precious gets taken away from me. I should have learnt long back. I should have held on tightly, I should have clutched to feverish chest all my values, my integrity, my dignity, my independence and my baby. My beautiful baby.

In that crowded market, she just vanished like a magic trick. He didn’t believe me, he went to look for her and didn’t come back for a week. That was when my hair started falling out, my nails turned black. Now, every morning his eyes stare at me with hate. Now, he doesn’t reach for me in bed, he no longer touches me. I can’t go on like this. My daily supplications, my ministrations have borne no fruit. Our married life is a deserted battlefield. This is the only option left. I say it to myself again, this is the only option left.

Then, the doorbell rings. It must be him. I open the door. I sit at the dining table opposite to his chair. He washes his hands and his face. He looks older, I hadn’t noticed how much he has aged in just a year. He has changed into a vest and white drawstring pajamas that hang loose over his lean, overworked legs. If he is surprised by the effort I have put into making our dinner, he doesn’t show it. This makes me a little angry but I know from experience it’s no use shouting at him. Asking him to notice this, to appreciate that, it only makes him crawl further back into a place where silence drowns out everything else. I want him tell him that it’s going to be all right. But, I don’t. I just summon all the courage I haven’t used all these years and clasp the knife with determination. He has finished his dinner. Now is the time. I must do it. I will do it. I know he won’t stop me because he has been waiting for me to do end it. I walk towards him, I run my fingers through his hair. Then, I take the knife and plunge it three times, into him. His eyes betray nothing. His body shakes from physical shock and he collapses, his head falls on the plate. I take the plate out from under his face, I run a napkin over his cheeks and I kiss his forehead.

I notice the blood slowly dripping from his body onto the chair and from the chair onto the floor. I realize I am covered in his blood too. I go into the kitchen, I wash the knife. I wash the dishes and put them back on the racks. I have to get cleaned up and leave before the police arrive.

Posted By,

Swati.

Your daily cup of copy.