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Friday, May 20, 2011


I sit by the window watching the seasons pass by. It is summer-time now. Drops of rain beat on the roof sonorously and trickle down the eaves leaving a trail of wetness along the walls.
The skies are overcast with promising grey clouds. The rhythm of the rain drops is like a jazz song played out slowly. I hold out my hand and feel the cool drops on my palm. I try to hold the tiny, transparent beads but they elude me. They pass through my fingers as easily as light penetrating a crevice.
Reminds me of him like every other thing does.
Was it a year or a month back, or just yesterday?
I remember sitting by the sea-shore with him. He held me as I drew his name on the sand but the waves would not let the letters be. The waters came again and again washing away the sand and gravel and along with it those precious words.
Some moments freeze in time. And no matter how hard you try to exterminate them from your memory, you cannot. They hold onto you and become a part of you, like the air you breathe, the food you take and the clothes you wear.
I remember how we used to share an ice-cream cone in freezing winter. I would rub the gooey stuff onto his nose and he would ruffle my hair and laugh.
I remember playing in the rain with him, screaming like little kids as we jumped into puddles, splashing muddy water on each other.
We used to go on long rides in his car and return to “our” place and sit by the balcony watching the moon and stars cast a gigantic motif in the dark night sky, sipping glasses of wine.
But all this changed.
It changed the night I received the call.
It was a broken voice – a shattered being; a woman crying.
His wife.
I knew he had a family. He often talked about them. But without emotion.
I knew he loved them though. I could feel it. Women’s intuition, I guess.
I once saw his wife and kids’ picture in his purse.
They looked like a cozy, happy family, smiling and filled with warmth.
After the call, the phone dropped from my hands.
What was I doing?
I have been brought up in a respectable family. But many people do not know my dad loved another woman throughout his life. And my mom was a broken woman who withdrew deeper and deeper into her shell until she no longer lived, just existed.
Here, I was replicating the story with my life and I was the other woman.
The other woman.
How does it feel like being called that?
The villainess who broke up a family, the whore who shattered a home most probably for his money.
I still remember his wife crying, pleading, asking me to leave them in peace.
I decided to do that.
Next morning, I packed my bags while he was still sleeping, left an apology note and made an exit from our secret haven.
I looked at him long and hard before I left. I wanted to kiss his forehead but I was scared he would wake up.
That was it.
I no longer exist for him, I am sure. I have tried to build another life alone. I can’t forget but at least I am surviving, maybe moving on.
I never regretted my decision.
The rain has stopped. Pale shards of light filter through the clearing clouds. A ray falls on my hand.
I will soon hear the cuckoos sing. I will see gaily-colored butterflies sucking honey from the blossoms in my garden. I smile slightly, open the windows wider and listen to the crickets singing their twilight song.

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