Story

Of Grief

Grief didn’t hit her when he was dead. Uncanny as it was, she believed that crying over a dead person was useless. It was the emptiness, the complete absence of his, after the funeral, when she was alone in the house, that she realised she missed him. It would never be the same, she thought. Slipping into the satin nightdress, she lay in bed, their bed, trying to organize her thoughts. Or maybe questions.

Why didn't he talk when he realised he couldn't take it anymore? Why hadn't she paid any attention to him the last few days? What was she to do with the house? How was she supposed to grieve?

Nahor had never had the urge to cry. She felt his loss overwhelming, yet, the ability to weep for him, eluded her. Somewhere around midnight, the phone rang. It was Radha.
"Hi, how are you holding up?"
"I'm okay. It's been a rough week."
"Listen, if you feel lonely, just come by our place."
"It's fine. I don't want to bother you and Mridul".
"Mridul and I are more than happy to have you anytime. This loss can be hard, but I'm sure Dada would want you to go on."

Radha, her sister-in-law, was a therapist. Part of her job was to be supportive. Only, Nahor wished she would stop being so pitiful about everything. Yes, it is hard to be without Luit. Yes, this house does not harbour his scent anymore. But his death should not be the end to their relationship.

"What do you mean when you say Plath is not a martyr?"

This was the first question or the first sentence he had uttered to her, when they were strangers, before they knew that the world would no longer be the same after this interaction. He had thought it ridiculous for a Physics student to judge an American poet. Little did he know that "inane passions" were too often suppressed. Raised by a single mother, who worked as a domestic servant, Nahor was not constrained from turning into an avid reader. Although becoming a writer was a dream, need was to be prioritised. Luit, for his part, who never had to face financial difficulties or family issues, did not pursue English because he wrote well; it was more of a philosophical desire (a pretentious one too).

"Because she was more than just a self-destructive poet, more than a dead mother and a troubled wife", was her answer to his question.

She pulled the comforter over her body, even during the stifling heat.
"You should have some paracetamol, Nahor. Sweating the fever out won't help." is what he would have suggested, had he been here now.

When Nahor found out about his affair, after almost 14 years of marriage, she sympathised with him. "There's no reason to detest you. You needed a break." He was surprised, but he knew her. He always came back to her, no matter how much he craved other women for he loved her like no one else.

In 2014, a PhD student was assigned to Nahor for supervision. Urmi, with her blue hair, a pink Sony Walkman, was not what Nahor had expected. Her questions, her answers, her criticisms, her authoritative arguments enthralled Nahor to the core. But more than that, she was a Madonna in disguise. Sharing an obsession of Oasis perhaps brought them ever closer. She would spend restless nights dreaming of a blue-haired girl. When they first kissed, during a seminar in Dehradun, they felt like they were in a painting. A still of a film. A photograph for the entire world to see. A moment in time. They never spoke of it, things went back to what they used to be. No promises exchanged, no family secrets shared. A bit of magic had taken over them that night.

A fever-ridden Nahor realised that she had certainly never been in love. Love did not draw her towards Luit. Love was never the reason why she pursued Urmi. Time must heal all scars but not the scar of guilt, especially when your partner is now ashes inside a mason jar. She sobbed like a wounded dog, when dawn was just a few minutes away. "My honesty killed him". Because she regretted not ever admitting that she worshipped him. That she was never herself before she met him. That she loved him.