Tuesday 14 January 2014

REMORSE .....Short story 3


https://m.femina.in/femina-fast-fiction/remorse-2229-html

Remorse by Archana Mujumdar Tambe
I wake up very suddenly. The train has gathered speed. I look at my watch. It was 11.30 pm. I don’t know how many stations had come and gone since it left Pune junction, where I had boarded the train. I awake with thoughts of my miserable life, unaware of anything around me.

My head rests on my folded hands, as I stare at the berth overhead in the lightless compartment. Flashes of my life as they stand today, start whizzing past, from the time I had started understanding this drab world. A permanently ailing and bedridden father, always at the mercy of an overworked, sad and whimpering wife—my poor mother. Except for moaning and grunting I have seen no other expression of my sick and sleeping father, and somehow, in these last 25 years, I have grown to hate him—hate him so much for making our life a torment. I often wonder about his drinking habit, the habit that reduced him to this state and me and mom, to a life of permanent pain. I wonder why God was so merciful in blessing him with an endless useless life? Mother worked for all of us, tirelessly, but all the anger that she had for everything was vented out on me. Canes and curses. Sometimes it got so bad that I run, hide in fear and cry for hours. Most nights I lie awake, hating my parents, hating everything about life and thinking what the best way to end this meaningless life would be.

Work—another troublesome affair. Having only a basic degree, I can just about manage to get a door-to-door salesman’s job. I hate this job, but is there a choice? Who likes to ring every doorbell and be shooed away like he is a thief or a burglar? I ring at least 50 to 60 doorbells per day, oblivious to rain or sun. But usually, can’t get past even three doors. This, and the boss says that I don’t make a sincere effort. As if he accompanies me on those rounds. And if that is not enough, he threatens to dismiss me if I fail to deliver the target. 

The only time I forget my woes is when I am looking at Shanti. Shanti, the petite, sweet and gentle board operator, presently my only happiness in life. I have seen Shanti give me shy glances although I pretend not to notice, but somewhere, deep down, I feel a certain something at the thought of her noticing me and that too, in such a way! It evokes a wonderful want in me, a want to possess someone, totally my very own, to love and care about. 

‘Home’ is a small two-room apartment in a chawl with common toilets. This apartment comprises a kitchen and a larger outer room, barely fitting dad’s bed, a small chair, table and two mattresses rolled in a corner, which make up for mother’s and my beds, by night. At the other corner is an old large iron trunk, where mother keeps whatever little valuables we own. On a wall is hung a mirror which seems to be only for my use. There is always a filthy odour in this place I call home. It stifles me and every single night I sleep with the thought of killing this horrible man, who has made our life hell. I also feel like getting away, going away forever, somewhere, and fast; I have to break free from this torture. Don’t know where to, but I must…else…

This morning, when I left home, there was just one thought on my mind—never to return! I started walking briskly to wherever my feet carried me. After walking aimlessly the whole day, exhausted, I looked around to where I had stopped to rest. It was almost 7 pm and I was near the railway station. I walked in, bought a ticket at the counter for Kanyakumari Express scheduled to leave in the next 15 minutes. Still deep in my unhappy thoughts, I walked into Pune junction. The last thing I remember after getting up was boarding the train, in the last compartment. Almost immediately, I fell sleep. Now, it’s 11.30 pm. How long have I been sleeping?

I stretch and look around. Then, I get up and walk a bit. Strangely, the whole coach is in darkness, with nobody in it but me. I saw a figure of a person in a corner seat opposite where I am sitting. I reach for the light and switch it on, and see this beautiful girl, with strange sad looking eyes, staring at me. Our eyes meet and she smiles at me.
“Hi,” I greet her politely. “I’m Vipul. And you?”
“Hello, I’m Disha,” she says, smiling at me. “Where are you going and all alone?”
“Don’t know where,” I say, and ask her, “But so are you. Where are you travelling to?”
“Home,” she smiles now, and comes to sit beside me. She then opens a small bag and offers some food, which I take willingly. She starts eating too. “But, aren’t you scared to travel alone?” I ask.

After a pause, “Me? Scared? No, not at all,” she answers with a wry smile, which changes to a fierce expression, which I find somewhat strange. Ice broken, we get into a deep conversation learning more about each other. Disha Johnson from Wadi, hails from a small town in Maharashtra but currently works for a large sari manufacturer in Trichy. She had come to Mumbai for a meeting with a retailer wanting to engage in their brand of saris. Her husband Nishad, the national sales head for a tyre brand, usually visits Mumbai by this train.

“So then, is he not travelling with you today?” I ask, to which she replies, “Life and its uncertain ways...Don’t want to talk about him, if you don’t mind.” And she looks away. I see her face contort and there is pain in those large brown eyes. Then suddenly, looking at me, she says, “I loved him a lot but he cheated on me. Went away with another one, leaving me craving his love. And all I do is wait…wait for him and his love.” Slowly, under her breath, she adds, “Someday I will meet him on this train, or will I?”

Why, I thought, does she want to meet a man that dumped her? I feel drawn to her. She too is lonely and in pain, just like me, I tell myself. I notice her eyeing me, and feel her warm breath as she moves closer. Slowly, she entwines her hand in mine and looks up at me in a very strange and loving way. My heart reaches out, and with love and tenderness I have never felt myself capable of, I put my arms comfortingly around her. She responds too by hugging me tightly and what follows is stranger than fiction. We both leave aside our thoughts and end up fiercely hugging and kissing each other. Soon we are all over each other, making passionate love. My blank mind is now suddenly alive, active, and I feel as light as a feather in body and mind. All my woes have suddenly vanished and I feel full and complete in her embrace.

In this contented, happy state of mind, I fall asleep in her arms. The train comes to a standstill and we both wake up with its jerk. It has reached a station. She tells me it is time to get off the train. Completely mesmerised and still intoxicated by her sweet charm, I walk behind her. She takes my hand and we disembark. I read the word ‘Wadi’ on the station as we walk out together in the darkness of the night.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My home,” she answers as we walk out in silence.
I hear a voice and slowly try to open my eyes to the face of an old man peering down at me. There is strong sunlight above. I try to get up but feel strangely weak. I peer through my half-open eyes and see a few men. The old man with a white long beard has a shovel in his hand.
“Where am I, who are you, and what am I doing here?” I ask him, and further, “And where is Disha. She was to take me home.”
“I am the caretaker of this place,” he tells me. “Disha who? This one?” he asks, pointing to something at my side. There is a strange sadness in his eyes now.
“What?” I suddenly sit up and look to where he is pointing. What I see turns me cold. I am sitting beside a tombstone in the middle of a cemetery and the tombstone reads: RIP Disha Johnson. Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead and my throat runs dry.
“Who was she? Did you know her?” I ask him.

“Yes. I was at her burial 10 years ago. People said her husband had pushed her out of a running train.” Then, looking at me again, he asks, “She brought you here from the train, didn’t she? All of them that she did so far, have said just that!” Shaking his head, he walks away. The first shockwave gone, my mind clears.
I look down at the tombstone and gently run my hand over it. Disha, who had shown me what it was to feel and love. I feel sorry for the fact that she was just a poor, sad soul trapped in between two worlds and would so remain. She was helpless. And at that moment, something makes me feel ashamed of my self-pity, and the anger and hate that I felt for my helpless parents.

Was my situation as bad as Disha’s? I was young, healthy and alive, wasn’t I? If I took my thoughts away from my own pain, could I not work harder and achieve whatever I wanted to? Disha really was helpless, but was I? Was I so selfish that I had to run away from a situation, which Mom had alone faced for so many years? Mom, my dearest, loving, hardworking brave Mom. I saw her anger, but never her hidden love. Tears of remorse started trickling from my eyes. I was so thankful for having met Disha. I got up, my mind now cleared of all ambiguity. Dispelled of all unhealthy thoughts and with a mind now focussed to take life by its horns, I walked to the station. The train for Pune chugged out of Wadi, taking with it a new man looking to conquer new horizons.






Link of my Short Story REMORSE pasted here...Do read n enjoy..:)

No comments:

Post a Comment