The Aftermath

It was still dark when Meera forced her eyes open. She could have lain in bed for another couple of hours if she wanted to, but a voice inside her said that it was time to leave. She looked at the clock. It was four in the morning. Her husband would most likely be home soon. She turned to her left to see Sam sleeping by her side, his forehead devoid of wrinkles, his lips curled into a wry unconscious smile. He was probably dreaming of the ocean. Meera imagined him sitting alone by the waterfront, looking out into the endless stretch of blue tranquility that lay ahead of him, while gentle waves kissed his toes, and whispered goodbye as they melted into the sea. She looked at his boyish face long and hard, hoping to partake of that moment of bliss. But that fleeting felicity was his and his alone. She, on the other hand, had been singularly left out. 

Meera sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. She could tell that a man lived there. There were clothes strewn across the room, some hanging from the handles of chairs, and some crumpled in a heap on the floor. Leather shoes were paired with rubber sandals and socks were nowhere to be found. The desk had typed sheets of paper scattered all over, with no binders, no labels, and no semblance of organization. She spotted the end of her embroidered kurta peeking from underneath the stashes of paper. She wondered how it found its way to the desk, let alone be buried beneath the rubble. But it strangely didn’t seem out of place. She realized that there were no pictures on the wall. There were no framed faces peering at her, feigning familiarity. Maybe he never loved anyone enough to cling onto them. Or maybe it was just men. 

She looked at the clock again. It had only been fifteen minutes, but it almost felt like an hour. She decided to take a shower. She tried to wrap the sheet around her in an effort to leave the bed, but couldn’t. Sam was holding onto it in a death grasp. She muttered under her breath and let go of the sheet. She couldn’t afford to wake him up. After all, he looked too peaceful. Meera stood up and looked at her side of the bed. The soiled linen traced angular patterns mimicking her body – an exoskeleton reminding her of the previous night. She felt tainted and couldn’t look at it anymore. She tiptoed across and made her way to the bathroom.

Meera tried finding her way, but couldn’t see a thing inside. The geography of the room was unknown to her and the darkness wasn’t helping. She was careful to close the bathroom door behind her and switched on the light, albeit reluctantly. She found herself standing by the sink facing a mirror. She looked at the woman staring back at her, but she was unrecognizable. Her eyes were still blurry from sleep and an extended period of darkness. She squinted straight ahead, making sure that it was her she was looking at. The image had her hair in tangles. Her eyes were deep set, with shadowy circles running under them. She thought it was smudged remnants of kohl from the day before. She tried erasing them with her fingers forcefully, but they wouldn’t go. They were adamant. She stretched her arm to the side, tapping the skin beneath her elbow. The muscles were no longer as firm, and they bounced more than she would have liked. She looked down at her stomach and caressed her stretch marks longingly. There was a stitched up dent on the side, which had once been a gaping wound. And suddenly she felt violated. She looked away from the mirror and covered her breasts in shame. 

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Meera had been walking for the past hour, and she had almost reached home. The hurricane had ravaged the city and had left a deathly calm behind. There were no birds in sight. People were still holed up in their houses, some secure, sleeping peacefully in their bedrooms and some trapped under a pile of debris, afraid to start afresh. There were giant uprooted trees, stretched across the breadth of the road, resting on dented roofs and shattered windshields. Makeshift shops had been obliterated, their unsuspecting owners still on their way, harboring false hopes for a day of good business. The devastation was palpable. Meera waded in a bubble of indifference, making her way through vast stretches of human wasteland that lay on either side, her mind wandering off into the distance. 

She reached her apartment and waited for her husband to return. He might want to have some tea, she thought. She walked into the kitchen, and set some water to boil. She looked out of the window blankly. The sun was up now, and she realized she had some piled up laundry to take care off. She walked out of the kitchen, heading towards her bedroom to change, when she heard the doorbell. She stilled smelled of Sam and wanted to change first, but her visitor seemed impatient, going at the doorbell relentlessly. She roughly ironed out the creases in her shirt with her palm and opened the door. Her husband was standing there. His eyes were red. He smelt conspicuously of cheap alcohol. 

“Tea?” she said, with forced animation. 

He looked away and stumbled into the house. He muttered incoherently and Meera took it for a yes. The boiling water spilled all over the stove. It hissed like a serpent as it made its way to the floor.