The Letter

Scribbled in haste. Folded neatly into a square. Tucked underneath the desk lamp.

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It was late afternoon when Sam pried his tired eyes open. The hurricane had subsided by then and fluffy desiccated clouds peered in through the window. He didn’t get a lot of sleep the night before, but for once, he wasn’t staring at cobwebs stretched across the corners of the ceiling that desperately needed cleaning. He was with Meera. And they had made love like parched travelers in a flaming desert. He was half expecting to find her sleeping next to him; curled up in a ball, disarrayed locks strewn over her face with reckless abandon. But she was gone, leaving behind a hollow at the heart of an empty pillow; a hollow that had cradled her head through the night. Leaning against the headrest, he stared at the vacant half of the bed longingly for several static minutes. He was searching for remnants of her absent form in the contours of the soiled linen. He could tell how she had aligned her bent knee, how she had arched her back at an odd angle, and how her limb rested itself over her forehead out of sheer habit. Why did she leave without telling him? Had he done something to hurt her? Sam craved for a cup of steaming tea laced with a hint of cardamom. It never failed to cheer him up. It reminded him of the wintry Sunday mornings at Glendale, when he would hop down the chilly stone staircase in nothing but flimsy pajamas and threadbare socks, determined to make it for breakfast while the rest of the school slept underneath heavy cotton quilts. But sitting alone at the edge of the bed, the impetus slipped out of him. He dipped a teabag in a cup of boiling water instead, sipping out of it dispassionately. 

Sam walked up to the door of the balcony and looked around the room trying to put the pieces together. He noticed the shirt that he wore the day before, bunched up at the foot of the bed. It happened to be his favourite shirt. A date with Meera deserved some careful dressing. However, it still looked soaking wet. He probably wouldn’t be able to wear it again. Maybe he would preserve it for posterity, as a mark of a new beginning. 

He closed his eyes and tried to relive their time together. But it was all awfully blurry. The room was dark as night with the curtains drawn. Sam remembered how Meera had fought to keep the lights off, although he desperately wanted to see. She was strangely adamant and Sam had no choice but to relent. There was an irrational sense of urgency in her lovemaking. While he tried to smell her hair and taste the beads of sweat dripping down the nape of her neck, she bit his lips and clawed at his arms, digging tiny furrows down his back. It’s not that he didn’t like it. He just wasn’t prepared. She thrashed around like a caged animal, years of captivity propelling her towards liberation. Sam could hear her pounding heart, threatening to rip her breast apart. He frantically tried to hold her down lest she got hurt; lest she escaped. But what he didn’t know was that he was her freedom, and she was latching on to him for dear life. After hours of grappling in the dark, fervently holding on to each other, Meera finally gave up the fight and collapsed on her side, exhausted. For a moment he thought she was crying. Her breath echoed within the patchy damp walls.

Sam noticed a note, folded beneath the desk lamp. He didn’t remember seeing it there before. He put down his cup of bland tea and opened it. It was a letter from Meera. 

“Dear Sam,

Last night was a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. But I always knew it had to end, like all dreams do with the onset of dawn. Yesterday taught me that life wasn’t over when I thought I had breathed my last, years ago. You showed me that I was more than just a living corpse, rotting away from the core, and the stench that spilled out of my pores was hardly mine. With you, I felt like the one I used to be and caught a glimpse of the one I so wanted to become. And all of this in mere hours. I robbed you of a day, only to selfishly find myself, and for that I truly apologize. I’m sorry if I made you think that 'this' was more than that. But I cannot drag you into the whirlpool that is my life. So I’m leaving, in search of emancipation, to set things in order, treading the path that you opened for me, albeit unknowingly. You know how to love Sam, not just like a man, but as a person. You shouldn’t keep it bottled up within your stiff collars. Share it with the world, with hapless lost souls like me. Give them a reason to live, for God knows they’re waiting. I did not want to wake you and say goodbye. I was afraid of the finality that comes with it. So in the hope that our paths will cross someday I take your leave. Knowing you was a gift and I wish you all the happiness.

Love

Meera.”

Sam took his time to grasp what he was reading. It couldn’t really be the end, could it? The letters were neatly formed, all slanting to the right; sturdy and sure. There wasn’t a scratch in the entire page, which made him think, that she had composed this a million times before in her head. A day was too little time. He wanted so much more. He walked to the balcony and looked down at the street below. The hurricane had reduced the makeshift shops to a pile of rubble and tattered tarpaulin. He imagined Meera making her way through the midst of the wreckage, red slippers in hand, tousled hair thrown to the wind, not bothering to turn back once, while vast expanses of azure resonated with destiny’s derision.

Sam felt like he was drowning in quicksand, plugging his nose and stifling his throat. He didn’t know what to do. He grabbed his phone and dialed the only number he knew by heart. He hadn’t called home in twenty years and he was certain that no one would answer. But he heard someone at the other end. Strangely it was a woman.

“Hello?”

Sam didn’t know what to say. He was expecting his dad’s gruff voice.

“Umm.. Sorry. This is Sam. Is this the Khanna residence?”

“Yes it is. Who’re you looking for?”

“I was wondering if Mr. Khanna was home. Never mind. It was a mistake.”

”No. He is. It’s just that he’s not well and no one has called in to check on him for years. So it was a little unexpected. Are you a friend of his?”

Sam was debating whether to tell her who he was. His dad probably hadn’t even mentioned that he existed. He must have remarried. Not that he cared. But he decided to tell the truth anyway.

“I’m his son. Sam… Samarth? He’s probably never mentioned me.”

The voice fell silent at the other end. He could almost hear the flurry of thoughts racing through her mind.

“Anyway it was nice talking to you ma’am”, he said. He couldn’t remember why he had called in the first place.

“Wait. I don’t know you, but that doesn’t matter. You’re his family. Would you mind coming down to visit him sometime? I know it’s not my place to ask you this, but Mr. Khanna doesn’t have a lot of time left, and meeting someone familiar might help him remember. I don’t know how far away you live, but I promise you won’t regret it.”

“Not to be rude ma’am, but how would you know anything about my regrets?” He couldn’t stand her tone of familiarity.

”I agree. I don’t. But I care about him. And he looked happy in the pictures with you. It’s obvious that I cannot force you. But please do consider it.”

A click at the end of the line and she was gone. Sam felt numb, floating in a bubble, looking for direction. His favourite shirt caught his eye again, all bunched up at the foot of the bed. He picked it up, wrung the muddy rainwater out of it and hung it to dry.