Without You

By Saranya Rayaprolu

The sheer white curtains danced in sync to the wind swaying in through the windows, as I walked into the room. The wind was cool, and filled with the essence of petrichor, but somehow it failed to give the comfort it used to give, and it failed to be the one that would soothe the soul. I knew the reason. It was him. He left me behind, leaving me incapacitated to feel things the same way I did with him, in his absence. I used to love the way the wind would delicately caress my skin and would playfully mess around with my hair, tousling it all over my face, but it wasn’t the same anymore, and I brush my hands over my face moving the strands aside, and tuck my hair behind the ears, hurrying in, as the wind blew harsher, scattering the documents and some old, gleeful memories captured in photographs, all over the room. I sighed in exasperation and leaned over, picking them up, and set them back in their place. He is careless about keeping things in order, just the way the photographs and several other things lay scattered over the bed right now, and as I go through those things, my eyes fell over a photograph of his, lying upon the bed and a smile crept up my lips, unknowingly. I took it carefully into my hands, not wanting to stain it with my dust-laden hands. The dust is stuck on my hands like it doesn’t want to leave. It has been there for long now, and for months, maybe? I lost count of the time, somehow. I would sometimes feel like my camaraderie with the time broke apart, or maybe I felt this way because he was no more with me. I fell in a trance, as I tried to remember the time, but the wind gusting in chaotically once again, caused a banging noise, as it struck through the door, forcing it to strike against the wall, and it startled me out of my reverie, and once again, my eyes fell over him, and I found myself adoring his boyish grin in the photograph. This memory was from our secret voyage into the depths of north-eastern India, that no one from our family knew about. According to them, it was a college excursion that we went on, with the whole batch, while it was just the two of us, spending the time alone, exploring the world, exploring our love. Long since we got married, our parents still do not know the most of our affair. It was our little, secret, dear adventure. We were still young, wild, reckless, totally in love, and in the lush-green phase of dating. And as I continued gazing at the photograph, I couldn’t help, but laugh, thinking of the moment when I clicked it, and as I continued to, another strong, mischievous stroke of wind blew it out of my hands, snatching the laughter from me, as my eyes rose in panic, and I trailed behind, to get hold of something which was much, much more than just a mere photograph. I picked up the picture and sat over the bed, and taking my diary which lay beside me, I carefully placed the photograph somewhere between those thick, white pages, keeping it unharmed, and turning the pages behind, I continued writing what remained incomplete, last time. I wish he could read it, just the way he used to, stealthily, sometimes, and would make fun of me, endlessly, for the kind of things I would write.

“… He died. He left me behind. I could no longer see him give about the grin at his silliest and the room echoed his laughter no more. He was dead. Absolutely lifeless he was, but was not a diffused chill in the air, or a shimmer of mist, or the one lurking in the dark, the way they would often theorize dead people. He had simply ceased to exist in the world that I was in. He had simply stopped living the life he was bestowed with, the same way the saints and monks renunciate the worldly things for a purpose much beyond and profound than the concept of life, but him being inexistent, was very much purposeless and something not very sane.

He was a child trapped in the body of an adult. Slightest of the achievements would make him happy, and littlest of the scars would bring out his tears. He was an empath, and would dissolve in people’s lives unambiguously, like the meandering air. He was a hurricane of smiles and laughter. But nothing remained the same, for he had become a ghost, fond of an eerie silence, and it was this silence that had insinuated itself into his existence in such a way, that it made him almost inexistent, dead. It aches as I think of him. Who would’ve thought that an innocent wish of mine would snatch him away from me, forever? That a ghost, he would become?”

As I paused writing and took a moment to breath, I heard some heavy footsteps, growing louder with each passing moment. The approaching footsteps utter a monotonous, wet, splashing noise, as they strike against the drenched, marbled floor of the corridor repeatedly. Each footfall is chaotically spaced from the last, no rhythm at all. I realized, it had started raining already, and the tarry, black clouds that had covered up the sky, spoke of how it was not going to come to a halt so soon. I quickly hid the diary behind me, as I heard the footsteps approach very close to me, not wanting to get caught scribbling into the diary again, and as I did that, I saw him walk into the room, completely drenched and his clothes dripped water, several drops at a time, wetting the floor. A single glance of him in that state infuriated me, as well as filled my eyes with love for him. I rose from the bed and stormed towards him, as he just looked towards my direction blankly, but I slow down, as I see his face transform from expressionless, to pale, to something painful, and with that he collapses to the floor on his knees, beginning to weep his pain out, once again, as I stand still, heedless, not knowing what to do. It pained to see him like this, each time.

“Nisha—"

I heard his painful, longing, feeble whisper, which sounded more like a yelp, a cry to be rescued from this pain, this nothingness, and be held, and comforted. He stretched his hand towards me, and I knew he wanted me to hold him, but I did not know how you would even touch an inexistent, for each time I tried to, I failed, miserably. He wept and wept, expressing his aching sorrows, but all I could do was stand and see, doing nothing. And each time I would see him like this, I only wished if I could reverse the time and not die. Even the tears deny flowing out of guilt that I died, leaving him behind, and leaving him like this. I wish I had not been adamant to drive the car to his office that day when I didn’t even completely know how to, and he silently accepted my childish request, and the aftermath of which was the broken time for me, and an eerie silence for him.

“Does he think that it is not hard for me?”

But still, it is harder for him. I see how much he has loved me, in his eyes, right now. They were as dead, as I was. It aches more, as I see the love and grief battling, to conquer, in there. I realized what people would often say, was the truth after all. People who die merely stop flowing with the time, but people who lose them, cease to flow as well, as they try to learn and live without them, but fail, repeatedly, and more miserably, each damn time. The death he died was not visible, but I can see it in his eyes, but he still had a chance at life, as this death was merely what he chose for himself, as he oscillated on a fragile string between life and death. I saw him shatter to smithereens, as he lit the pyre upon my funeral, after which I stopped feeling the numbing frost inside my own frame, as it was replaced by an eternal warmth, but also the adamant, ashy dust over my hands. I fear, it was a mark of my existence in the world of inexistence, where feelings were inexpressible, and touch, was merely another death along mine.

Streaming tears made their way out of his eyes, stealthily, camouflaging themselves amidst the water slowly running down his damp hair. He closed his eyes in pain, and bitterly wiped them off with his fingers, and then placing his palms firmly over the floor, he stood up suddenly and his eyes rose wide as he peered into my direction, as if struck by some realization.

“Could he see me?”

I hurried a few steps behind in panic, as he moved dangerously close to me, and I don’t know why, but I brought my palms to my face, and shut my eyes tight, in fear. And as I keep them shut, I feel him pass through me as I stumble a little. I open my eyes and a smile creeps up my face, as he quickly approaches the little crib beside the bed, and not letting his dampness touch the little entity of merely months sleeping soundly, he takes a towel, wraps it around him, and takes his little daughter in his arms and smiles, like he does, every time he sees her. No matter how painful it was for him, he would smile the same way to her, each day. It was the time of the day she would usually dirty her diaper and would keep up her wails until she has gotten her father’s attention. She is totally my daughter in that aspect. A typical attention seeking daughter of an attention seeker mother. Just like a desperate mother would, he checked his child’s diaper and sighed in relief. Maybe the little one wasn’t in a mood yet, but he frowned and didn’t look convinced enough that she was healthy. He pecked her forehead and placed her back into the crib, carefully, not disturbing her dear sleep. He stood there to lovingly admire her for a moment or two, and then as he turned around, the same ache disperses into him, as it appears on his face, and with that he strolls to the mirror and stands in front of it, and steps ahead to touch the emptiness, the void beside him, that he isn’t able to fill, no matter how hard he tries, and like every time, I stroll to fill that void, with more void, and nevertheless, I place my hand upon his shoulder, which, like every time, he doesn’t feel.

“It was not your fault, Kabir.”

I say, what I keep telling him, each time.

“If not because of me, I wouldn’t have lost you. I could not save you.”

“But you saved our daughter, and I asked you to choose her.”

“I could not save you. It’s all my fault. I am sorry, Nisha.”

“It’s okay, Kabir. It’s really okay.”

“Please, come back.”

“I want to, but I cannot.”

He lowered his head and closed his eyes in grief, continuing to shed tears. I wonder how long is he going to blame himself for not being able to save me. Tears ran down my cheeks, the wetness of which only I could feel. I was weeping too, and I wanted him to know. I wrapped my inexistence around, and hugged him from behind, as tight as I could.

“I cannot live without you.”

“Please, live.”

“Take me with you.”

“I cannot.”

I say, as I eye at Tara, our littlest, sweet baby. I hug him tighter, with that. And as he turns around and sighs, letting his tears continue to flow, I take a step back and elevate myself on my toes, and I kiss his chapped, pale lips. I love him. I love him more, each passing moment that has ditched me behind, as it passes, and I still try to hold it and flow.

“I am always around you, Kabir. I love you.”

I say, with another innocent wish that he could hear.

“I love you too.”

He said, and snapped open his eyes, as he heard.

“…Maybe. But he shut his eyes again, accepting the aching reality that he must’ve hallucinated, and he walked past me, hearing the loud crash caused by the mischievous wind as it just broke something, and it was followed by the sweet baby’s wails, and I slapped my forehead, realizing how unrealistic I had been. And I smiled, seeing him take wailing Tara into his arms and turn to walk out talking sweet words to her, but before he left, he turned around to face the room again, and said, ‘I know you are around’, and continued eyeing around the whole room, and stopped his gaze at where I stood, and smiling a little, he closed the door, and walked away.”

By Saranya Rayaprolu