Keys — Part 2
[Editor’s note: readers should note that “Appa” means the same as “Dad” in English — Martin Morrison, Bouncin’ and Behavin’ Short Stories. Thanks for your excellent piece, Shwetha.]
I approach the main door, a threshold once guarded by my self-imposed decree, forbidding its crossing without the accompaniment of a husband. But now, a recent shift has granted me passage. As I navigate the shoe rack, my chappals find their place among Abhi’s abandoned socks and shoes, silently inquiring about his anticipated return. To the crawlies that dwell beneath the earth, I retort without uttering a word, “Ah, a sumptuous feast your owner would make — a bountiful dinner indeed.” Would bones themselves require shoes? I withhold from the shoes the revelation that their owner lay swathed in shrouds, his mortal form immersed in meditation within the confines of a pit.
At the funeral, his mouth remained stitched shut, a stark contrast to its wide-open state in the morgue — an enforced meditation, one might say. In that cold domain, his tongue, deprived of moisture, protruded outward, while his gaze seemed to negotiate the terms of his ultimate destiny, stranded upon the precipice of his fateful train of doom. The terrestrial realm obstructed his passage down the enigmatic tunnel of the unknown, its consecrated insides beckoning to him through an amplified silence. Perhaps he would snap out of his trance, driven to search for his shoes. Maybe the drops of cotton that filled his eyes, nose, and ears would dissipate, granting him a breath of life once more. I did dare to challenge the priest as they laid him to rest, urging him, “Now, do your thing. Pray until this man is resurrected before our very eyes.”
The solitary roaches nestled in the corner gossip of my inadequacies. For two decades, my husband has bestowed upon us his benevolence, affection, and jovial spirit. I find myself concurring with the cockroaches — a man of his caliber deserved a superior version of myself.
As I steal a glance at Appa, standing by my side, his presence commanding attention, an air of anticipation envelops him, his eyes glimmering despite the haze of cataracts. His youth, dimpled and vibrant, remains steadfast, embracing his graying nest that was never combed up to retain its natural strength. He selects moments to embrace his age, like demanding his bus seat meant for a senior citizen or pretending deafness when seeking directions from unsuspecting women, his perfectly shaved jaw and chin adding to the charade. And in the legal office or bank counters, he regally summons forth every ounce of patience from those in service to him, asserting his presence with unwavering authority. This is the man who, at the very moment his father drew his last breath, relinquished his responsibilities to me and my six siblings, my teenage mother, and my ailing grandmother.
One day, he was present, bemoaning our existence, and the next day he vanished. Vanished. Vanished, taking with him all our savings and precious jewels, seeking a life that excluded our existence. There were days when our sustenance consisted of meager rotis and scant dal, then days when even those diminished to meager rotis and water, and other days where we relied solely on a gulp of sugar. Remarkably, we endured without succumbing to the temptation of devouring one another. Particularly on those occasions when our mother’s cooking manifested as salt-laden, lumpy porridge — I was oblivious to the fact that cooking was not her forte, but my eldest sibling understood. He knew, deep down, that we were perhaps more appetizing, a preferable nourishment. And now, you return, Appa, your dreams shattered and your savings dissipated. No one dares utter a word of reproach to a man who resurfaces. And here you stand beside me, abandoned once more by another ostensibly affectionate and compassionate man.
As I gaze upon Appa, a profound sensation engulfs me, turning my very being inside out. My once-contained innards spill forth, my heart exposed, bare and desiccated. My limbs crumble, tears bleed out dripping all over the floor. A viscous ruby-colored rage washes the veranda floor, the bloody sunset confirms and then saturates. How could you abandon us? I shriek, my vision clouded by the torrent of tears. All perception and comprehension fade away, leaving behind only a mouth akin to a jagged bear trap, devoid of solace or release. You left us alone to die, Appa. How could you? How could you carry the weight of your actions throughout all these years? Did you not grasp the depths of our suffering, the arduous days we endured? Why did you not die instead, Appa? Why must my husband be ripped from my grasp, while you — my callous father, continue to gallivant carefree through the corridors of my existence?
My words penetrate the depths of his being, seeping into his bones, reducing him to a mere slither on the floor — my perpetrator vanquished at last. With my fury as the catalyst, the burdened condensation in the sky quivers, and together, the three of us succumb to tears that cascade upon the earth. Each raindrop, a tender kiss before it meets the ground, carries a whisper of rust and silica, infusing the weeping silence with its poignant essence. Appa’s voice trembles as he addresses me, his words laced with remorse and a hint of desperation — “My dear Leela, beta, I am deeply sorry. In my youth, I was foolish and lacked guidance. There were days when hunger gnawed at my core, when mercy and respite were but distant dreams. I pleaded and cried out, yet no one extended a caring hand. I bear the weight of regret for leaving you all alone in those dire times. If circumstances had aligned favorably, I would have returned, but I knew the challenges of shouldering the burden of eight hungry mouths while navigating the trials of survival would be formidable. Nevertheless, let me assure you, my efforts were relentless, and though success eluded me, I harbor no regrets. I returned, determined to nourish my children’s minds through education and secure them in stable alliances.”
As my eyes widen, reclaiming the gift of sight, I cast my gaze upon him, and an incredulous laugh escapes my lips. “Is this some cruel joke?” I mockingly question. “You speak of dreams and regrets, as if it were all a trivial matter. You simply left us, without a word. What of the love for your family? How could you bear to be torn away from us so callously? It all seemed so effortless for you, as if we were inconsequential to your existence. Unpaid bills accumulated, hungry nights persisted, and loan sharks pounded on our door. Your eldest daughter, my beautiful lovely sister, alone and desperate, gave birth to her child in an almost demolished public toilet squatting, discreetly away from them. Bereft of a father to nurture the child, she cast him away into the unforgiving drains. Unspeakable horrors unfolded, and we chronicled every torment, pouring our hearts onto the page in desperate letters to you. Yet, not once did you reciprocate, not a single letter in response.”
He opens his mouth, but it quickly snaps shut, resembling a crocodile retracting from its hunt, defeated and crestfallen. No words emerge from him, only the heavy silence of remorse hangs in the air.
Within the depths of my fury, a trembling fear takes hold, constructing a staircase that ascends to the fortress of my heart. It staunchly resists the onslaught of piercing pain, for it knows that succumbing to such agony would be my ultimate undoing. Instead, an ethereal pain, reminiscent of minty freshness and the hue of turquoise, surges within me, filling me to the very brim. And in this paradoxical state, I find myself smiling, relishing the taste of raindrops upon my lips. It is a bittersweet elixir, akin to the tender embrace of sorrow, enveloping me in its gelatinous cocoon.
I shut the gate behind me, acknowledging the impossibility of repairing what is broken — the man and the fractured time of the past. Wiping away the trails of tears on my face, I make my way towards the waiting car. Inside, my children eagerly await the test drive. With a flick of the ignition, I attempt to bring Maruthi to life, its roar beckoning neighbors to gather in curious swarms. At this moment, I embody a lioness stripped of her pride, the cacophony of “Ohhhs!” and “OhNos!” and “Ughs!” erupting like a collective purge. Amidst the commotion, Mrs. Shetty remains absent, her deliberate avoidance perhaps a testament to her desire to shield her daughters, teaching them obedience and submission. Appa stands outside the car, knocking on the door, a plea for admission. My younger son graciously opens the door, granting him a seat in the rear.
The three of us, united within the confines of the car, observe the ebb and flow of people, their stares laden with veiled threats and a thirst for retribution. Sensing his confusion, my younger child inquires, “Why is nothing moving outside, Amma? When Appa drove, everything — even the people — moved in a straight line.”
With a tender smile, I reply, “I am not driving the car, beta. I do not how to drive one, to be honest. Your father is no longer here, and I am bereft of that skill.”
My words stumble amidst my mournful wails, a testament to the weight of my sorrow.
“Oh ho! It’s so simple, Amma!” exclaims my younger one, gently wiping away my tears and caressing my cheeks with a tender kiss. “I will teach you, Amma. Just turn the steering wheel left and right, and everything will move outside. I’ve seen dad do it countless times.”
In response, my elder son delivers a playful smack to his younger sibling’s head and remarks, “All the food you consume in the kitchen, and yet there’s nothing in your head. It’s not just the steering that propels the car, you dumbhead! Let’s enroll you in a driving class, Amma. Some lessons will certainly prove helpful.”
“But what about all these people, Samir?” I express my concerns, seeking solace from my children.
“What about them?” Samir interjects, his voice resolute.
“I am a widow, Samir. A widow driving a car. I can’t be expected to appear happy. I’ve just lost your father,” I confess, my wails echoing once again, as I tenderly place my hand over my aching heart.
The rain subsides outside, leaving behind a resounding stillness that magnifies the echoes of my wails. As I conclude my consumption of sorrow, swallowing my last breath of despair, I merge with the collective silence enveloping the atmosphere.
Samir, taking in a deep breath followed by a profound exhale, remarks, “People are foolish. They crave the sight of others drowning in sorrow, for witnessing such anguish grants them a false sense of strength and happiness. Like vampires, they feed on the joy of others. It provides them with an illusion of choice, oblivious to the fact that choice has always existed, yet they never sought it. We always possess a choice.”
“Besides, it's too late for you to back off now. You are already inside the car,” he adds with a smile.
I cast my gaze upon our home, constructed with sturdy stones and bricks, an heirloom passed down through two generations, now entrusted in my name. Our humble, rusty iron gate manages to ward off stray intruders, but what of thieves, disapproving neighbors, and the watchful eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Shettys? What of cultured men barging uninvited into our sacred space, because keys and cages have been unlocked, doors that should have otherwise remained shut?
Outside the gate, the car stands parked, a symbol of liberation and opportunity. The roads ahead, defiant in their nonconformity, resemble earthworms that do not regenerate. Yet, as the road reaches toward the heavens, it transforms into a vibrant rainbow, injecting a momentary burst of color into the scene. Blades of grass on either side of the road peek through, offering a glimpse of life’s resilience. Together, we all savor the rainbowed silence.
Indian writer
