Mr. Bose looked out of the window at the narrow winding road that disappeared at a bend. It was an afternoon, one of those dry and dreary ones that visit Calcutta more frequently than he liked. Clouds loomed in the sky threatening to burst any moment, not a leaf moved in the stillness that ensued but nothing happened. A minor gust turned a carelessly thrown black polythene bag into a glider. It flew for a distance, gaining altitude steadily until the wayward twig of an insignificant shrub on the kerb arrested its movement. It fluttered a while, protesting unsuccessfully against the sudden and unanticipated impedance. Mr. Bose fixed his attention on it, wondering if a stronger wind will relieve its agony. If he had the powers he would have commanded the elements to help the polythene bag.
Her presence did not register in his mind till she placed her hand on his shoulder. She must have stood there silently for a while for she too was following his gaze and was thinking the same thing as him; let the polythene bag fly!! At the feel of her hand he turned his head towards her and they exchanged a smile. She looked pretty in the dim glow of the afternoon. The shadow of the window rails made a pattern of black and white on her face. A strand of hair cascaded down from her casually made bunch and rested on her cheek. He blew it, giving it a short lease of life before it regained its position. This made her feel ticklish, the hair brushing against her skin. She tried meeting his eyes but by then he had returned to his reverie. The polythene bag still had not broken the shackles of the twig. The afternoon had fallen even more silent with the clouds beginning to spread out uniformly and the rain seeming more imminent than before. A few impatient raindrops landed making the earth emanate its earthy smell. She let go a deep sigh, her gaze no longer following his.
A photograph hung on the wall. The face of a woman who must have been quite stunning in her youth peered from it. It was difficult to say what emotions she was going through when the photograph was taken. The eyes did not betray any feelings, the mouth seemed listless and the pallor was that of a person who could use an outing in the sun. A string of dried flowers hung around the photograph. It had been weeks since the flowers had been replaced. The stub of a burnt out incense stick jaunted out from the corner of the frame. The ashes lay in a haphazard pile on the floor below.
The picture was taken in morbid haste and it showed. The photographer must have been great at his job for the image did not reveal the fact that the subject had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had exactly two more months to live. It was one of those acts of final desperation when you know that you are running out of time and must finish doing the last few things. Mr. Bose saw his wife of fifteen years wither away in front of him since the doctor had sounded out the ultimatum. The fall was fast, from a mild fever and stomach pain to full-time confinement to bed. Mr. Bose clung on to the hope of a miracle recovery. He woke up some mornings thinking that his wife has been cured and would bring him breakfast in her cheery self. Instead he made peace with her cries of pain and agony. She turned from a healthy woman to a shadow in a matter of months. At one point she seemed like nothing more than an overgrown malnourished child. it was at this point that Mr. Bose decided he must get a photograph of her for the end seemed around the corner. Getting her ready for the photoshoot was an elaborate affair with the beautician from the nearby parlor laboring to bring her color drained face to an acceptable condition. She did not express it but nevertheless felt very good about being pampered in such a way. The photographer made a million adjustments with the lighting and shades before he got what he thought was professionally acceptable. The final result satisfied all parties concerned.
She was her sister, younger by ten years. Until the news of the sickness came, her life seemed confined to tending to her parents and her work as a lecturer in the university. At thirty, her marital status was both a matter of concern and disappointment to her parents. She had lived through the cycle of falling in love with a person whom her parents did not approve, tiding over the pain of lost love by adding educational degrees to her resume and when there was nothing more to study discovering that she was far too old to fall in love again or find an appropriate match. After a few years of fruitless attempts at matchmaking, her parents had resigned themselves to the fact that she would probably never get married. She did not mind the arrangement, her parents were lonely and the house was big enough for the three of them. She liked taking care of them. The sister’s house on the other side of the city was a happy distraction for weekend visits. In all, it was all a happy if not perfect arrangement until the news of the illness came.
Mr. Bose for all his virtues was totally incapable of providing care to a sick wife. He had been the careseeker all his life, caregiving did not come naturally to him. So when she was no longer ambulatory, it came down on the younger sister to take over the household. The sicker she became the gloomier he went. Other than holding her hand for long periods of time and crying silent tears he did very little in terms of helping the situation. At one point it was not clear who was nearer to death. It was not long before she had to permanently shift to her sister’s place. The days were long and the nights restless, but she handled the losing battle with the poise of a professional. The parents came from time to time but did little to alleviate the hopelessness of the situation. They added to the tears, increased the sense of impending doom and left making the situation more desperate. It was left to her to pick up the broken pieces together and somehow mend it with a glue that seemed impossible to find.
The end came in an anti climax. She had lapsed into a coma two days earlier. The doctor had come and gone without offering much in terms of hope. In fact, they did not realize when exactly did she pass away. It was a foregone conclusion anyway and they had stopped checking on her every five minutes. Mr. Bose walked into the room in the evening to hold her hand and realized that there was no pulse. There was no shriek, no scream. In time he had learnt to make peace with the eventuality. The funeral happened without much fuss. Friends and relatives came in droves, each sorrier than the earlier. He stood like a pillar, unsure of how to respond to the entreaties. She made the conversations and accepted the condolences. In time, when there were no more people coming in, she prepared to leave him to himself, to grieve privately and to heal if that was possible.
Before leaving, she took the framed photograph out of the envelope, pulled a chair to reach above the door frame and hung it. She stepped down from the chair to see if the frame was not set crookedly. As an afterthought, she made a small ring of flowers. He walked in from the front of the house in his trance like state and caught the image of her standing on her toes on the chair trying to reach the frame to hang the flowers. Something tipped inside him when he saw the photograph. He looked at the frame and burst into a bout of violent sobbing, all the grief pouring out. She, unsure of what to do, hugged him as he convulsed like a child in her arms.
It had been two months since the passing. She had resumed her work after a short period of mourning. People around her did not notice any effects of the loss of a dear one. If anything, she appeared more cheerful and eager to talk. One could not have guessed that she was fresh from nursing a sibling to death had they not known her long enough. But her close friends knew that she was merely overcompensating for her pain with the extra vivaciousness. They let her be. After all, death of one does not stop the life of all around.
to be continued....
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