Letting Go

They stood outside the front door, hesitating. She pursed her lips and blinked, fighting back tears. He swallowed hard and exhaled. Taking out the key from his pocket, with a sudden swift motion, as if to get it over with, he inserted and turned it. His hand rested on the doorknob for a long second. Then he took a deep breath and pushed open the door. They stood on the threshold looking in at the emptiness. He turned to his right and flicked on the lights. The bareness of the house seemed to glare at them more strongly than before. Earlier they would open the door with gusto and smile wincingly at the sound of the TV or the music system, which their son used to put on at full blast. But today the house seemed to echo with silence. They looked about the house vacantly, unused to its grave stillness Her eyes moved to the mantelpiece and rested on the photograph of their son. Tears sprang to her eyes and she pursed her lips again. He looked at her and seeing the direction of her gaze put his arm round her shoulder and pulled her closer. They moved towards the bedroom in silence. She sat down on the bed heavily, as if all life had gone from her body. He looked at his wife as she cupped her face in her hands.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Water, tea, coffee?”
His voice sounded hoarse and he coughed to clear it. She looked up at him, her eyes red with the tears she had and had not shed. For some reason, he felt ashamed and looked away.
“Can I have a drink?” she asked.
He looked at her in surprise. She had never asked for a drink before. But, today, of all days, he could not refuse her. He nodded and walked over to the cabinet. He poured a small whisky for her and a large one for himself. God knew that he could use a drink today.
“Pour me a stiff one, will you?” her voice reached out to him in a whine and seeing his back straighten at the request, she said, “Please?”
He added to her drink, poured soda and water and walked with the glasses to the bed. He held out her drink to her. For a moment, she hesitated and then took the glass. He sat down in the chair opposite her. Again, they looked at each other, embarrassed by this new and awkward situation of drinking together. He took a sip, swirled the drink in his mouth, feeling its heat warm his face from within. She raised her glass to her lips and grimaced at the smell. She wet her lips and took a tentative sip. It seemed to burn her throat as it went down. She felt her face go red. Suddenly, she hiccupped. She cleared her throat and swallowed hard. She smiled at him awkwardly and felt rather foolish.
“Are you sure you want to drink this?” he asked with concern.
She nodded to him. Now that she knew the strength and the flavor, she felt braced for her next sip. She took another sip, this time a larger one. But the bitterness remained. She held the glass away from her face in distaste. “How can you drink this?” she asked.
“In the beginning, it is bad. One has to develop a taste for it. Then you get used to it,” he said.
“Develop a taste for it,” she said blandly. “One has to develop a taste for everything, get used to everything, doesn’t one?” she added rhetorically.
He knew what she was talking about, but did not want to encourage the topic. He remained silent and then took another long sip. “Is it true that one gets used to everything?” she asked. “Is it possible? Will we get used to it, too?”
He looked up at the ‘it’ but remained quiet. Her face puckered up with the pent up tears. “Will we… will we ever get used to it? Our son…our son…” Her voice became a wail.
“How could it happen? How could it happen to us? Our son, our only son. Dead, just like that. He was here yesterday. How could he not be here now? How can life go just like that?”
He placed his glass on the table and sat by her side, holding her. She clung to him, sobbing against his chest. He could not think of anything he could say that would make a difference. He did what he could do: held her closely, caressed her back. Presently, she stopped sobbing and drew back a little. When she seemed in control, he got up and went to the bathroom. He brought a Valium for her and held the glass of water and the tablet to her. She raised herself with an effort and took the small tablet. He pulled the blanket to her chin and reached over to switch the lights off. He walked to the chair and sat in heavily. He closed his eyes and started rocking his chair. Soon his wife’s breath became soft. He opened his eyes and looked at the bed. He could only make out her silhouette. He listened for sounds but all he could hear in the darkness was silence.
***
He opened the door. The sound of the TV reached his ears. For a second he stood there in disbelief. Then, shaking his head, he went inside. The house was in total darkness. He looked about in surprise and switched on the lights. He called to his wife but there was no response. He went into the bedroom. She was in bed, still in her nightdress. By the light of the TV, he could see that her eyes were red and puffed. It seemed that she had not moved from the bed at all.
“What are you watching?” he asked, trying to make his voice casual and curious.
She kept on staring at the TV, not replying. She took a deep breath and without looking at him said, “Nothing. The house was so silent I thought I would go mad. I wanted to hear some sound, put on some music.”
“You should have. Why didn’t you?”
She turned to look at him and, in an accusing tone, said, “The music system is in his room. I could not bear to go into his room.”
He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He took her hand in his and patted it softly.
***

She sat opposite him at the dining table. He had cajoled her to move out of the bed. At first, she had resisted, but then, perhaps thinking that it was easier to give way than resist, had joined him. He put a large helping of the noodles he had ordered on her plate and then helped himself. She looked at her plate and making a wry face looked away.
“Do you think I was a good mother?” she asked suddenly. He did not want to talk about it, but he felt that it would be better to talk about it and put it behind them.
“Of course you were. You shouldn’t think so much.”
“I love him. Do you think he knows…” she shook her head and corrected herself, “knew?”
“Yes, he did. Why do you doubt?”
“He wanted so much to buy the bike. I refused. But, it was only for his safety. He knew that, didn’t he? I…I should have let him buy it. Why did I refuse? He died anyway. In an accident! Isn’t that ironical?”
Her eyes rested on the empty chair. She looked at his plate with cold disgust and asked, “How can you?”
“Huh?” he mumbled with his mouth full. “How can I what?”
“Our son is dead!” she yelled. “How can you sit at the table, with his empty chair right there and eat, gorge like a pig? Seeing you eat, one would think that you were at a party and not in mourning. All you are concerned with is breakfast, lunch and dinner! How can you even think of eating?”
She pushed her plate away, backed her chair with such force that it toppled over and she almost ran back into the bedroom. Even from the table, he could hear the sound of her sobs. He placed his spoon on the plate, cocked his head and with his forefinger rubbed his eyebrow.
***

When he came back from the office he was surprised to find the front door locked. He frowned. She had not been out for months. He opened the door with his own key and switched on the lights. He called her on her cell-phone but she disconnected his call. That meant that she was near the house. He took off his tie and went into the kitchen. He put on the water for tea and idly watched it boil. Presently he heard her car turn up the drive. He poured tea in two mugs and carried them into the living room. She entered the house, laden with four shopping bags. He got up and took the bags from her.
“Shopping?” he asked needlessly. She smiled tiredly. They both sat down on the couch and she put up her feet on the table. He handed her a cup.
“Tea,” she said gratefully and smiled at him. “Just what I needed.”
They sipped their tea quietly. Then he cleared his throat and said, “So, what did you buy?”
“I did not even wan to go shopping,” she replied. “It’s just that I had nothing to do.”
“That doesn’t matter. You went out of the house, at least, after what – three months?”
“Two months and twenty-eight days,” she replied dully.
“Show me what you bought,” he said hurriedly.
She leaned over and picking a bag placed it in her lap. From it, she pulled out a grey, pleated skirt. She held it up for him to see.
“Nice,” he said.
Then she took out two tops: pink and dark blue. Again he nodded, and to show his appreciation said, “Your colors; they are good.”
She put them back into the bag and picked up another one. From this one, she took out two printed nighties. He smiled at her.
“This all didn’t take much time so I went into the Home section. I bought some towels and bed sheets.”
“What’s in the last one?” he asked.
“Something for you,” she said, and took out an orange sweat shirt. He paled a little.
“You like it?” she asked him.
“Hmm hmm.”
She looked at it wistfully. “This was his favorite color, wasn’t it?”
He coughed a little and took the sweat shirt from her.
“I bought some shirts too,” she told him.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I don’t need anything.”
“You think I bought all this because I needed it?” she asked him sharply. “I just wanted to have something to do; I didn’t need to shop.”
“Then you shouldn’t have,” he said. He dug an elbow into her side with sad jocularity, and added, “You would have saved money; you should save it, you know.”
She sighed deeply and said, “For what?”
***

They lay on their bed, both trying to sleep. But sleep seemed to elude them. He could not see her face in the darkness but had the feeling that she was crying silently. He reached out to her and touched her face; it was wet. He turned on his side and lay by her side. “Don’t cry, dear, please,” he whispered. She turned to him and clung to him. He held her in a tight embrace. With his hand, he caressed her hair. He moved his face from her neck and kissed her on the forehead. She stiffened a little, but kept on holding him. He raised his hand and ran his forefinger along her back. Her breath became short and heavy but when he moved his lips towards her she drew back. He touched her cheek and tried to draw her close but she pushed him away violently.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” her voice lashed at him in the darkness. She turned and flicked on the bedside lamp. He looked away and rubbed his eyes in the glare.
“It doesn’t mean anything to you, does it? Our son’s death; it does not make any difference to you at all. Nothing matters to you at all, does it? As long as it does not interfere with your routine, everything is fine, isn’t it? All you want is your food and sex!
Never once did you say anything about how you felt. I never saw you shed a tear for him. Don’t you feel anything? Sometimes I feel that it is all my loss! How can you be so cold and heartless!” He tried to say something, but she moved away and said, “Leave me alone!”
He sighed, got up from the bed in silence and went into the sitting room.
***

She wandered about the house listlessly, not knowing what to do with the time. The house was again laden with emptiness and silence. She went over to the window and looked outside at the garden. It was in full bloom. Unbelievably bright colors met her gaze. She looked away. It seemed to her a gross injustice that while her house was all dark and dull and drab, right outside the world was ablaze with colors, that life was moving on just the same. She wrung her hands vexedly and walked over to the writing table. She pulled the chair back and sat down heavily, as if dead tired. She looked at the papers on the table. It was her husband’s table, strictly off limits for her. Idly, she pulled the handle of the drawer. It opened. She blinked in surprise. Out of curiosity, and the desire to pass the time, she pulled the drawer further. There were some papers there. She rifled through them, careful not to disturb their order. Her hand touched something hard. She lifted the papers and saw a diary. She was surprised. She did not know that her husband kept a diary. She took it out and looked at it in quiet surprise. She opened it at random and started reading:

April 25: Our son graduated today. With distinction! What a proud moment it was for me. All through the ceremony, I wanted to clap and cheer and tell the person sitting next to me that it was my son, MY SON, being honored in each subject on the stage. But, of course, I did not say anything. It is not the done thing. So, I sat in silence soaking every moment. She sat next to me, recording it all for later viewing. She always does that. She wants to store all the memories on camera, while I want to live every moment, relish every moment, unencumbered and undiluted by devices and technical details. I feel that they take away the essential pleasure. Anyway, it was wonderful, WONDERFUL. I cannot express how proud and happy I felt. We went out for dinner and for the first time I had a drink with my son. He is a grown up man now. It is time for us to grow and deepen new bonds of camaraderie. I know that he feels the same way; she doesn’t. She was annoyed with me over it. But, it is all right. The occasion demanded it.

She remembered the occasion. She had not been just annoyed with him. She had not spoken to him for two days. But, he had not said anything at the time. In fact, he had continued to talk to her without anger or reproaches. She swallowed hard and opened another page at random…

Sept 06: We had a fight today. I mean Nina and Ricki had a fight today, while I remained the neutral and silent spectator. He wanted to buy a bike; she was against the idea. It started as a light-hearted discussion but soon changed into an argument. They argued over it for quite some time. It ended with her clamping up as usual. He went into his room and banged the door, neither seeing, or perhaps not wanting to see, the other’s point if view. I understand both their points of views. At his age, precaution is the last thing on his mind. She, of course, is protective, over protective. But, she is entitled to be over protective, even irrational at times. She is a mother after all. After she had gone to sleep, I went into his room. He was awake. I sat by his side and looked at him. He smiled at me.
Your mother loves you; you know that, don’t you? I asked him.
He looked at me, smiled and nodded.
She just wants you safe. She cares for you, doesn’t want you to get hurt, I told him. He nodded again and said that he knew.
I smiled at him again and wished him good night. As I got up, he did too. I looked at him and felt that he wanted to hug me. Suddenly I too wanted to. But, I guess it is too late to change. So, he just smiled again. I too smiled. At the door, he said, “Dad?” I turned to look around. My heart beat wildly, but he just smiled again and said, “Good night”. I know that he wanted to say ‘I love you.’ I too wanted to say, ‘I love you, son.’ but didn’t; I just wished him. But, he knows, without my saying. He knows that I love him.

Unable to read any further, she looked up. Tears stung her eyes. So, that was why he had said that her son knew that she loved him. She sighed and opened the diary again. It was like feeling a loose tooth with the tongue; you knew it was going to hurt, but could not restrain yourself.

Nov. 16: He died today. In an accident. Our son di…

Nov. 20: It has been four days today. These have been terrible, terrible days. My head feels heavy. It is an ordeal even to move slightly and I have to do so much. I could not write regularly because I felt too tired and I had to look after her too. Suddenly, I have this desire to record every thing, every small thing to come back to later. Like my wife, I too am recording everything. Only this is pain. Perhaps, I want to come back to all this later, remember and know that once I too felt; I too was alive.

Nov. 22: It’s been a week today. And I had to write about…about it. I could not bring myself to do it but I just have to. A policeman called me up and asked me to come over to the station. He did not mention the purpose, but fear overcame me. I did not tell her anything. I don’t know how I reached the station. The inspector was very kind, and slightly embarrassed too. I asked him pointblank if there was something wrong with my son. He told me the news. I could not believe him. I had thought he had been caught in a scuffle or something. He asked me to identify the body. The body! It is my son, I wanted to shout; he’s not just a body. But it wasn’t his fault. And he was right: it was just his body. Cold. Lifeless. Dead. I was dazed. My mind was numb. I could not think anything. I just stood there gaping. The inspector touched my shoulder. After a while and some formalities, I was on my way home. Images swirled in my head: my son’s voice, his laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief, his body. It went on and on until I could not see at all. I nearly hit a tree. I stopped my car some blocks away from the house and stared ahead blankly. My mind seemed frozen. Suddenly, my stomach started heaving. I swallowed until I could hold it no longer. My body was wracked by sobs. I rested my head on the steering wheel and then I cried.

She wiped the tears that had started pouring down her face. One or two tears ran down her cheeks, quivered on her jaw and then fell on the pages of the diary smudging the words. She got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She sighed heavily, went back to the table and continued reading.

I did not know how I was going to face her, tell her. I sat in the car for a long while trying to catch my breath. My head seemed curiously empty and heavy. I got out of the car and then stood outside the door, uncertain, unsure. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door. She was at the table, laying plates for dinner. I stood watching her wondering what would be the best way of telling her. Then realizing that there was no easy way. I decided to be blunt.
Honey, I called out to her. My voice, a hoarse whisper, did not reach her. She went on humming. I cleared my throat. She looked up with a smile at the sound. Seeing that it was me, she looked disappointed and said, “Oh, It’s you.” I smiled at her rather foolishly. “He is late again. You must talk to him.” I went over to the table and turned his plate over. She looked at me surprised and said, “What are you doing?”
“He is not coming,” I said.
“Oh! What am I going to do with all this food? Did he call you? Where is he? When will he come home?” she asked.
I sighed. How do people in similar situations handle them, I wondered? I am such a novice at this. I wanted to lie, to save her the blow. But, how could I? By now, she was looking at me curiously.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion and fear. “Where is he? When is he coming back? What is wrong, tell me. Hen is he coming back?”
I looked away and then said, “He is not coming back.”
A ghost of a disbelieving smile hovered on her face and then disappeared. The color went off her face. She stepped back. “Not coming back? What do you mean?” I moved towards her but she moved back again. “What do you mean?” she repeated, her voice a whisper.
“He is dead.”
Suddenly, all the sounds in the room died. I could hear her breath. She blinked at me rapidly. “What?” she whispered. I nodded at her. She swallowed hard and her face puckered up. Her hand went to her head; she swayed a little and swooned. I rushed to her and caught her limp body. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I would have to hide my own pain. I had to be strong for her.
We came back from the funeral yesterday. Funeral. Such a simple word and yet it has a tone of finality to it. As if, once you say the word all becomes final, hopeless. Not that there was any hope before. Anyway, we stood outside the front door, hesitating. When we came inside, we were daunted by the emptiness and the silence. Worse was the realization that this emptiness, this silence was here to stay, that it was going to become a part of our lives. She asked for a drink. I know that drinks do not mitigate grief. But how could I refuse her? Alcohol is a strange thing. It can levitate your mood in happiness but when sad, it brings back the flavor of the grief very strongly. She became sentimental after two sips and started reminiscing. I tried to comfort her. But, the grief seemed to have gone beyond words. Words seemed wholly inadequate. They seem to have been made for strangers. How easily they sit on their lips! How easily they can mouth the formulas, “It is all right; everything happens for the best; take courage; have faith.” I knew all the formulas but I could not use any. How could I tell her that the death of our only son did not matter? How could I say that it was all right? I had to give her a Valium. I wandered about the house aimlessly, surprised at how much silence an absence can bring.

Nov 24 : Today I found her rummaging in the cupboard. She told me that she was looking for his favorite cup. When I told her that it had slipped from my hand and broken she started searching in the dustbin. I told her that I had thrown away the pieces too. She glared at me. I could have sworn she hated me then. We all have different ways for the management of grief. Some of us become quiet, while others become loquacious and try to hide the pain behind words. Some treasure things that belonged to the deceased, while others take everything off the shelves and stow it all away. Some want to remember everything, savor even the pain and then there are those who want to forget everything and act as if nothing happened, nothing changed. I belong to this last category. Every day, I take something that belonged to him and put it away somewhere in his room, which I know she won’t step into. I don’t have the heart to throw it away, or give it to someone else. Article by article, one day his cap, the next day his cup, I am taking everything, removing all signs of his presence from the house so that we are not constantly reminded of him, his absence till the day all signs are gone and we will be just a sad, elderly couple who never had a son.

Dec12: I went into his room tonight. How cold it was! I went to his bed and remembered how we had talked in this very room only some months back. I sat down on the side of the bed and caressed the pillow. All signs of his presence have gone and yet they are all there. His stereo, his collection of CDs, his bike magazines – they were all there. Yet, they all seemed lifeless. The spirit has gone out of them, leaving only the cold remnants. I remembered our conversation and all that I had left unsaid. It is thus, trusting an uncertain future that we lose so many precious moments. In thinking that we will have many opportunities later on, we postpone our words and actions. How I wish I had not been reticent; that I had told him that I love him. Tears came to my eyes again and as I looked about, they started flowing. This time, I did not check them. She was not there to watch them. My tears belong to the night.

Dec. 15: I called her from work today. I asked her what she was doing. Nothing, she said. I told her to visit some friend; that it would take her mind off and be a good change. She told me that she could not bear to meet anyone.
“They are so kind and polite with me,” she said, “ that I feel I am a handicapped person and with their kindness they remind me of it all again. I wish they would treat me naturally. I am sick of their pity. I don’t know which is worse, being with them, surrounded by their sad, comforting faces and their terrible pity or being home alone.”
It is paradoxical. She says that she wants people to treat her normally and when I do that, she accuses me of being cold. What do I do?

Dec. 23: So much pretending. So much pretending!

Jan. 10: Her condition has started to bother me. She seems to have frozen in the moment and does not seem inclined to get out of it at all. I try to reach out to her but in vain. It appears that she has donned the cloak of mourning forever. She has become an island and the shores of her mind are touched only by her grief. I cannot reach out to her, cannot touch her. It is maddening. Sometimes, I too want to share my grief and unburden myself, but with whom? I cannot talk to her. I do not want to add to her grief. This silence! This emptiness! Sometimes, I feel that I am going mad.

Feb. 27: Today, she went shopping. After three months, she stepped out of the house. I was relieved. But, that did not last long. She showed me the shopping. She had bought an orange sweatshirt. For me! How could I wear it? My son’s favorite color. If I wear it, I will think about him all the time. And god knows there is no need for that! We think of him all the time as it is. Do I have to wear the sweatshirt now and remember how good the color looked on him?

March 15: It has been five months now. Things are not improving at all. She remains passive like a stone. And I cannot do anything about it. How terrible that we have to live like this!

March 27: Tonight, I tried to reach out to her in bed. She was crying. Words again failed me. I could not talk to her. What could I say? What could I ask? I tried to reach out to her, hoping that she would understand. But, she misunderstood me and lashed out at me. Tears rose to my eyes at our situation and when she switched the lights on, I had to look away and clear my eyes before I faced her. But, she did not let me speak. I went into the sitting room and resting my forehead on the cold table, I cried. She did not come out to check on me. This grief seems to have severed our ties forever, making us aliens to each other.

April 10: I cannot live like this any longer. Something seems to have died within me. Nothing in life seems to have any meaning at all. I work to kill time or I would go mad. People say that everything becomes all right with time. I am beginning to wonder if that’s true. It has been more than six months and we are still frozen in the same moment. The pain, the deadness, the barrenness – it’s still there, stronger than ever. She had called me cold and heartless. I wonder if that’s not true. In a way, I am dead.

April 20: Tonight, I contemplated suicide. I am sick of living like this. How easy it would be to just die! And how comforting! The thought, the relief of death was wonderful. Like an addict to the needle, I felt drawn to the idea. I went to the toilet and looked for an instrument with which I could cut my nerve. The thought of life dripping out of my body, drop by drop, taking all the pain with it, was soothing. I could not find anything. In the end I picked up my Gillette. I took it and sat down in my chair. I touched my nerve with it. My heart beat faster. I pressed the blade and a little blood oozed out. Then, she called out my name in her sleep. I started and the razor fell from my hands. I cannot do this. No matter how much I want to die, I cannot do this. If she were not here, if I were alone with my burden of grief, I would not think twice about it. But, now that she is here, I have to live for her.

There the diary ended. The last entry was two days old. She closed the diary and stared ahead blankly. Her mind was numb. No thought passed through her mind. She closed her eyes and pressed her eyelids. She heard the door open behind her. She got up from the chair and turned around, holding the diary behind her back. He looked at her in surprise and smiled weakly. She walked towards him, stopped a few feet from him and then held out the diary. He looked at her in surprise and then his face fell. She felt tears springing to her eyes. The briefcase slipped from his hand. She moved close to him and they looked into each other’s eyes, brimming with tears. She touched his face gently. He swallowed. She moved closer and then embraced him. His body seemed to sag in her arms. She felt his stomach heave. She dropped the diary and rubbed her hand over his back. She felt the tears come. She held him tightly and said, “It’s all right.” She ruffled his hair and whispered, “Everything is going to be all right.”
They clung to each other – each other’s solace in their common grief.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.02.2010

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