Meera stood there blindfolded, an invisible voice whispering,
goading her to take a step further. A crow cawed ominously in the distance
begging to be heard, its voice cracking under the strain. Her hands were free,
and yet she did not feel the urge to take the blindfold off, which was pressing
down on her eyes roving restlessly in the darkness underneath. Her feet were
bare against the icy stone steps while the wind stabbed her face relentlessly
with what felt like tiny shards of glass. She heard the lapping of water a few
feet in front of her, and yet she moved forward, the faceless voice getting
louder and more persuasive in her head. She enveloped her growing belly, hoping
to hear her baby one last time. But she heard nothing. It was as if she was
harbouring a lifeless bubble inside her all this time. She walked into the
freezing lake, as currents coiled around her limbs like hungry vines to a
trellis, waiting to devour her. Water invaded her nostrils and gushed down her
throat. As her leaden womb dragged her into the abyss, she did not scream.
Neither did she struggle. She simply let go of the reigns that had kept her
from falling off the precipice.
---------------
Her palms were still wet when she woke up. There was no
blindfold stifling her eyes anymore, no heartbeat in her uterus; just a scar that
throbbed when she felt utterly alone. She never had a chance to see her baby,
but deep inside she knew it was a girl. She would have been two today. At times
she wondered what she would have been like. She wished she had her eyes and
maybe her husband’s chin. But even if she hadn’t, Meera would have still loved
and guarded her with a mother’s ferocity. If only she had a chance. She looked at the table in the corner of the
room, its jagged end glowing under the lamp light; the one that went right
through her baby’s tiny heart. It called out to her in a voice echoing with disdain,
‘You could not have done it. Stop lying to
yourself, you selfish whore.’ She looked away. Meera had been meaning to
destroy the table for a very long time, but had eventually decided against it. It
seemed to be the only reminder of the baby she once bore and served to keep her
alive, albeit in a morbid sort of way.
It was three in the morning. There was someone terribly
impatient at the door, ringing the bell like a child’s plaything. She got up from under her quilt and walked across the dining room to answer it; her hair
matted across her forehead, her palms still dripping with sweat, her body cold
against the lace of her nightgown. Her husband was waiting outside leaning
against the porch, struggling to keep his bloodshot eyes open. He stumbled into
the living room, barely looking at her. He had returned after three days,
probably after being banished from several bars. She did not ask him where he
was all this time.
‘Do you want dinner? I can fix you something if you want.’ She
did not make the slightest effort to hide her apathy.
‘What’re you stupid?! I’m not hungry.’ He almost spit the
venom out, his breath reeking of alcohol.
Meera said nothing. Abuse had been the only constant in her
five years of marriage. She was strangely glad to be called stupid. Bruises were
more what she was used to.
‘Give me my pills and get the hell out of my sight! Your
ugly face gives me nightmares.’ He laughed at his own loathsome sense of
humour.
Meera fetched herself a glass of water and walked into the bathroom
to get his barbiturates. Her ugly face gave him nightmares, he said.
What about the one that she was living out for the past five years, the one
that she could not wake up from? She smiled at the irony of it all. She dropped
a tablet into the glass of water and watched it while it collapsed into a million
white fragments and disappeared in a frenzy of bubbles with sheer abandonment.
Then her eyes fell on the shower drain. It brought back flashes of the thread of
vermilion that emanated from between her legs, meandering past the wet tiled
floor, forming a cesspool around it. She had lost her child to her husband’s
drunken rage that night. It was the same December night two years ago, and
nothing had changed since then. Only she had stopped living, and no one even
noticed. Not even her. She held the bottle of barbiturates and poured them all
into the glass; an endless stream of white.
Meera took one hard look at the glass of water. The
camouflage was uncanny. She walked into the bedroom. Her husband was already
there, waiting for his pills. He could not sleep without them.
‘I don’t have all day. Give me those damned pills already!’
He snatched the glass from her hand and gulped it down. Not
a drop fell out the corners of his mouth. He put the empty glass down on the bedside table
and threw himself on the bed. Meera sat there watching him sleep, still cold against the lace
of her nightgown. There was one moment when it seemed like he was in pain, like
someone was crushing his windpipe from within. But the writhing lasted for only a few
minutes. She looked at the clock. It had almost been an hour since he took the
pills. She walked upto him and placed her finger under his nose. There were no periodic
bursts of breath, no gentle heaving of his chest. Meera looked at his face. She
could not remember the last time she had really looked at him. He had never been more at
peace. The demon had left his body it seemed. Its work there was done. Somewhere inside
his still lifeless form, Meera could see the poet she had once fallen in love
with. The world was too cruel for his poetry. It had stifled the rhyme in him, leaving behind a vicious beast. But it was all good now. He is free, she
said to herself. She fluffed his pillows, kissed his cold forehead, and covered
him with the quilt. Meera looked outside the window. It was almost daybreak and
her retired neighbours were probably getting ready for their morning exercise
ritual. She needed to alert them. Meera grabbed her shawl and walked out of the
house in her red slippers. The winter air smelled of virgin dew.
