My mother theatrically dropped the coffee tumbler when my sister declared, “Chithappa called. It seems Vivek is dead.”
My sister’s icy, cold words echoed off our walls. The idlis I was packing for my lunchbox burned into my fingers as I froze in disbelief. The coffee splattered onto the ground, creating a pattern all over our newly bought carpet. My sister was fixated on it until my father accidentally pushed the door too hard on his way in, causing it to hit the wall with a loud thud.
If she weren’t too shell-shocked, my mother would have quickly reprimanded my sister for being so crass. However, my mother was not of the disposition to care about culture or family values. I could see that she was falling apart. Vivek, her brother’s son, was the son she had never had. She had reminded us of this countless times, her eyes always softening when she spoke of him. The same eyes were now filled with tears as she gripped the kitchen counter for support.
Though she tried to hold her ground, she dropped to the floor seconds later and wailed. A few phone calls from her sisters later, her bawling mellowed down to crying. My father quickly went to the kitchen to bring her some water, which she refused. After much persistence from my father, she was forced to take a few sips.
I slipped to another room to text my friend that I wouldn’t attend school. This room was quiet and seemed far away from the avalanche of grief outside. I sat in the armchair to take a few breaths. My thoughts drifted to the previous year’s Pongal festival, where Vivek had cornered me on the balcony. My skin crawled, and I pushed the memory away.
I didn’t know how much time had passed, but when I came out of the room, I saw my father stroking and straightening my mother’s dishevelled hair. The kajal on her eyes had spread, and black was everywhere. Her beautiful eyes were now puffy and red. In my entire life, I had never seen my mother look anything but prim and proper. It pained me to see her this way.
Maybe I should have felt gloomy, too, but I felt empty and hollow inside. Yes, grief is not the same for everyone, but that is just the surface of it. In truth, when I thought of Vivek, flashes of him pressing against me, his lips forcibly on my cheeks and lips, and his hands trespassing on my body when no one was looking were all that came to mind. I was not sure how to feel about him being gone forever.
After my mother and father had left to pay their last respects, my sister and I were seated on the verandah, waiting for the car to arrive. My father instructed us to come later. I presumed he wanted to spare us as much as he could from all the tumult and outbursts of emotions.
The atmosphere was cold, but the silence between us was colder. It had been a few years since we last spoke. We have reached the epoch where one does not remember what transpired, and the days we fought like hell for simple things seemed too distant for us to remember. Sitting silently right next to each other seemed weird.
I prayed for something to happen so I could avoid going to the funeral. But deep down, I knew that if we didn’t go, our relatives would talk. They would whisper and judge, and my mother would be the one who’d face their disapproval. I do not wish to put her through that. She’s suffered enough. So, I complied with my expectations and waited for the car.
A few hours later, we entered the street where I had spent many summers. I felt an enormous pit in my stomach as the house approached. A mob of people surrounded the body, and everyone was grieving in their own way. My sister and I rushed in, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Then, as I quietly sat in a dark corner under the stairs, immersed in thoughts, an older woman came up to me crying and held my hand.
“You know, this shouldn’t have happened to Kamala,” she whimpered, referring to Vivek’s mother, my aunt. “She is a good woman. This is horrible. She does not deserve this. She loves you, you know.” Her voice trembled.
It dawned on me that whatever the woman said was true. My aunt was a nice person. Truly lovely and accommodating. I had seen her help many people without expecting anything in return. She always made extra food in case someone came unannounced and treated everyone respectfully. She did not deserve this. My chest felt heavy, and I found it hard to breathe. With tears blurring my vision, I climbed the stairs to the terrace.
Shockingly, I found my sister perched on the parapet wall, gazing at a sparrow that was merrily jumping on a tree. I went near her.
“You don’t see sparrows much in the cities these days,” she said, gazing at the sky. “Have you noticed this? It’s so happy, singing a tune. Not realising what is happening around it.”
All those years of fighting, throwing her possessions out of my room, and ignoring her existence vanished in a second. How did she make everything disappear with just a few words? Where did she have this power of hers stowed away?
I stared at her, but she kept talking. “You know Vivek was not a very good guy. Nasty, in fact. I tried telling you twice, but you did not listen. You kept hanging with him. He tried to misbehave with me once, but I pricked his hand with my bobby pin.” Her voice faded as memories resurfaced—her hushed cautions in the backyard, the concern in her eyes as she pulled me aside. I vaguely remember some words of contempt I shot at her. The memories came tumbling back to me. My sister did warn me. But I was too pigheaded to listen to her. I thought she was imposing authority on me. I wanted to tell her so many things—tell her she was right and I should have listened, even gone to her when I found out he was not such a nice guy. She would have protected me. Even if our mother never understood or stood with me, my sister would have. I knew she had the guts to give him a tight slap and give him the warning to stay away from me.
I walked up to her and hugged her. Unknowingly, a few tears escaped my eyes. “Sorry, akka. He…He…” were the only words that found their way out. Maybe I am still a bit pigheaded.
She hugged me back and stroked my hair like she used to. I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I never realised how much I had missed her.
“I feel so sorry for auntie.”
“Yes, me too. And a little for Vivek.”
“Yes, me too. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, you feel what you want to feel,” she said, laying my head on her shoulder.
We stayed like that for a while, watching the sun go down. Some wounds would take time to heal—the ones Vivek had caused and the ones we had inflicted on each other. But at least now, neither of us would have to heal alone.
DoubleSpeak 