Silent Betrayal

Nothing Happened.

It was her 5:30 am alarm, K woke up and found herself drenched in tears. She did not understand what was happening to her, what had gone wrong, so suddenly, so much unbearable pain... where had it all come from?

As she sat-up in her bed, tracing the light from the slightly parted curtains, she was clueless. Then her cell snoozed a reminder. Turning to silence it, she opened her message box and found an Adios from an international number. She read, re-read and shrieked... "He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, HE'S GONE!" She kept looking around, as if searching for an invisible sin in darkness. Heat surged her lungs and they went breathless.

It was like an invited stab, one aimed straight at the heart. She held her phone close and crushed it in her bosom...instead wanting roses with thorns, slyly sinking into the skin. "How could he?" "Why did he?" He was going to do it, you knew it all along, why are you so upset now?" . K didn't know whom she was more angry with... herself or him. He thought he was being sweet in the sms, being thoughtful that 'he'd cherish everything...' she knew he would, but it did not matter if he did. It did not matter right now. Too much anger, pain and a sense of expected betrayal filled her head. Her nerves beating at her wrists, her neck, her ankles... her knees heavy with pain. She wanted to release them, relieve the pressure, let them flow-out and calm down.

K looked into her wardrobe mirror and saw a doped-looking woman with horribly pale
complexion, swollen red eyes with blood lines appearing - like stripped naked roots, cursing red lips... A ghost out from nowhere, going nowhere... The tissue box emptied out, she had spent 45 mins crying, visualizing him on the airport, in the lobby with family, possibly a female friend, with bags tugging along, a packet of Benson kept handy. His face - straight, cold... expressing spurious affection, conveying heavy goodbyes. The aircraft taxied over the muck of this emotional volcano called Bombay, sometime before dawn, at the sinful hour when Lucifer rises and prepares to torch the skies.

It had been less than a week when they had met. K wanted to avoid him but wanted to see him in an elusive way. She called-in to postpone and then cancel, but changed her mind. She knew it could be their last meeting, in all probability. He was late, she mocked him and he accused her making it her habit. He had hugged her unrestrained for the first time in years, she felt it. Maybe she was wrong, maybe she shouldn't have felt so terrible about him going. They traveled together and when about to get off, he hugged her again, in an unsaid finality.

K didn't think of it as a finality, till all weekend plans stood paralysed in the face of his packing-moving-organizing scheme. She called him, then messaged him with urgency and he spoke to her in his atypical concerned tone, a tone used to talk to retarded children. She knew then that it was done... she mailed him in his 'style' and bade adieu.

Crouched on the floor, she recalled every word, every touch, every hurt... he was a cruel man. And he would continue to abuse her mind, with his presence and especially his absence. She wanted to call people, scream into their ears - scream into her unbelieving mind that he was gone! Not that he had been around so much that his going would've mattered, but what she felt right now was something ugly, and it was only a surging Amedee.

K was late for her yoga, the sky was turning saffron, the neighbour was talking to his dog, below her balcony, behind her back. She rolled out her mat, finished her pranayam, her yogic positions - blocking everything from her mind... Recalling random Bollywood songs, concentrating on her counts. The tough positions failed to cause any aches, she had pushed her threshold and could now hold her ankles bent backwards. The pain had left her body...

Dawn at the Roseman Bridge.

It was almost midnight, floating in light sleep, my mind was glued on the infinite happiness that Robert and Francesca were experiencing (3rd time over). I wanted this moment to freeze; didn't turn the page, let their love last for that one extra night.

The alarm sang 'katra katra milti hai, katra katra jeene do, zindagi hai, behene do...' at four am, I knew it was going to be a perfect day! On my way out to the gym, Borivali station looked spacious, still warm though with handful moving around, dressed in work attire. Darkness was thickening around me, the morning fog settling, twenty minutes and it would be dawn - the photographer in the corner of my mind calculated.

I held that thought and pulled out the bookmark from the page. The setting and the emotion, I left last night, was waiting for me.

I had to turn the page - it was time.

The scent and words took over, I knew the storm was coming, tears would taste my skin quietly, probably with a little smile now. But not yet, not today.

I reached Bandra, stepped out feeling very heavy, almost sniffing but not crying. I was almost there, but not really there - this time around, I hadn't given in so easily. It felt silly to think that maybe I had matured in 'the reading', a little The impact of those words was similar but I had handled it well - till now. (Robert's letter could prove me wrong, any second).

The last step to the bridge, I saw a faint saffron line rising - 18 mins, two more and the Bandra east skyline will go peach. The color gradation was about to begin. I waited to see the sharp orange form, sighed as people hurriedly dodged me. I imagined how the orange would look from Banganga, and called Drama King.

He was on his way and relatively in a better mood. “I will be there mademoiselle, in just 3 minutes.” I prepared myself for his, “who wakes up this early, its an obscene time? It's not even morning! You make me do crazy things. I am so irritated, you know I am not a morning person. What the f***, my phone is naked, where is the cover, you vile woman, you ate it? It drives me mad. Mademoiselle, why can we not do this at a sane time, like eight or so?”

I decided not to scold him today, not get back or mock; i was going to bear his irritation, today would be different. Years later, when we will not have time for friends, - we would miss these early mornings, we would miss the madness! i would miss this crazy irritating menopausal Drama King.

As I waited under the blinking red light, the azaan ended. Sunlight started to wipe the moon out. Some vendors were cleaning their shop's footsteps; and far away someone was baking naan. The car halted in front of me, honking, signaling me to step in. He looked at me and exclaimed, as I lowered the music volume, “Oh, my god, mademoiselle! It's that book again! are you going to cry? I could give you my shoulder but your colored tears will ruin the white linen.”

His morning voice sounded like a big brass bell on a nubile reindeer in a winter sky - amused, irritating and ecstatic! I smiled and forgave the arsehole of a guy that he is!