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Chapter 6 by Mohana Talapatra | #WriteWithChitra #StoriesConnectUs

Chapter 6

A man, so oddly hers and yet subliminally different, stood there, smiling a little upturned smile that read more like a smirk. Tufts of rakishly long salt-and-pepper hair that matched his beard had fallen over his eyes as he simply stood there, looking at her, arms crossed, waiting for her to say something. His handsome face was criss-crossed with wrinkles and crow’s feet, and laugh lines were etched deep around his mouth, much like a river whose many big and small tributaries had run dry with time.

She forced the words out of her mouth, which had gone as dry as the crackling bombil that were strung on drying lines near the seafront.

‘Vinod? Is this you? How is this even possible? You were right next to me last night, playing your silly little video game, even as I fell asleep …’ she said. ‘How … what is this … and your hair?

‘Are you … Is this …?’ Her shaky, teary voice trailed off. ‘I don’t understand … and who in the good lord’s name is Mrs Bakshi? Why am I getting calls from her son … from YOUR son?’ These last two words came out in a shrill shriek.

By now, she had a wild look in her eyes, her arms were flailing hopelessly, aimlessly, looking for something to strike him with in a fit of righteous vengeance – until she just gave up and sank in a heap into his black leather chair.

Grief over his transgressions, anger, disbelief – all of it raced to take centre-stage within her as she sat there  in a world that had gone to pieces, or maybe didn’t even exist any longer. She was no longer sure of anything.

‘Manorama, it has been 25 years since that night you speak of. 25 years.’ He paused, letting his words sink in.

Manorama stared at him in disbelief – his phone in her hand, the screen still lit with the message from Mrs Bakshi, saying “Check mail”.

Outside, the hush of the world was unnerving. No cars speeding by on the flyover below, no vendors or tea stalls, no loud chatter of office folks stepping out for a late afternoon tea, no stray animals. The only slow movement was that of a crow gliding in to perch on an old electric line, several hundred feet below the window.

At this point, Manorama felt dizzy and positively unwell. Not only had the world stopped spinning, everyone had disappeared into thin air (well, almost everyone), and her husband was saying it was 25 years since she had last seen him!

How could it be so? She still remembered the charred taste of the over-grilled chicken Vinod had made for them last night, when she was running late grading exam papers. She remembered the deep, satisfying kiss she had shared with Vinod just before she drifted off to sleep.

Exam papers … Suddenly, she chided herself for not even thinking of the kids since the discovery of the Big Betrayal. Where were her children?

She had so many questions at this point. Was this really her Vinod – this beautiful but haggard man, 65 now, while she had remained 36?

What had transpired in the 25 years she seemed to have lost count of, then?

And where was the rest of the world?

And who was Mrs Bakshi? How long had Vinod been seeing her, and how old was their boy now, exactly – Vinod and Mrs Bakshi’s?

Vinod cut into her reverie.

‘Manorama, do you remember the story we used to tell each other when we were first married and so idealistic about life … the story about the seven deadly sins – and of those seven sins, what each of us would find most despicable in ourselves, and in each other?’ he asked her.

Slowly, Manorama began to slow down and think coherently, for the first time, ever, perhaps – since that morning.

‘And what should happen to us, should either of us be caught committing one of the most-despicable seven sins?’ he continued. ‘And … if the world was collectively found guilty of one or some of these, what had we wished for the world and for humanity?’

Suddenly, Manorama could not breathe.

‘The world would remain; but the sinners would have to leave it, to die and be born again, and some of those most-despicable sinners – the worst of those, would have to stay behind to endure what they had sown … some remaining forever young’ she broke off, and with a sharp twang of horror, she realized … Vinod had aged, and she had not.

‘What was my sin, Manorama – my most despicable sin, the one you said would really rile you?’ Vinod asked.

‘Lust,’ Manorama replied instantly, and then very hesitantly, whispered, ‘And mine?’.

Before Vinod could answer her, his phone in her hand rang, and she looked down at it.

Mrs Bakshi was calling.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

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Chapter 1 by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Chapter 2 by Sumira Khan
Chapter 3 by Krusha Sahjwani
Chapter 4 by Sandeepa Mukherjee
Chapter 5 by Neha Gupta

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