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The
morning was chilly. The onset of winter could be felt in the foggy and cold
mornings and evenings. Nimmy sat on the elegant sofa and browsed the day's
newspaper. Her daughter-in-law brought her her morning coffee. Her son was
working abroad in the US and she lived back here in her home country with her
son's wife. Life in the US had not suited her and she had returned after staying
just a couple of months there.
As on everyday, today too, she went through the newspapers carefully reading all
the headlines and editorials. It was then that her glance went on to the
Obituary printed on the left hand side bottom corner of Page 5. The face looked
vaguely familiar and the name kept buzzing in her head. She knew the person but
couldn't connect to who it was. Age makes things difficult, she thought. She was
after all 71 and seen and experienced much of the world.
Suddenly through a haze of memory she remembered the person. It was Sruthi, the
thin and lanky friend of hers from college. Yeah, now that she remembered Sruthi
had been her roommate too in the hostel for the three years of her hostel life.
She was the first person to whom she had got acquainted on the freshers day at
her college nearly half a decade ago. Her wide toothy smile and vibrant face had
given so much reassurance to her on that day. When in the night she felt lonely
in a small and dark room in the old hostel building, far away from her parents
and her home city, it was Sruthi who had put a hand around her and comforted
her.
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As she looked into the
photograph in the newspaper trembling in her old wrinkled hands, a lot of
memories, images and snapshots of yesteryears resurfaced to the foreground of
her mind. The careless and joyful days of youth, the campus life, the friends,
the laughter and fights. She couldn't believe that so much time had passed and
that unlike the day when they had parted from the campus to myriad other places
for jobs and higher studies, now were the times when they were saying eternal
goodbye.
The funeral was to be held at 4:00p.m that day and the place was only 4 hours
journey from her house. She had lived so near, yet she had not known that an old
friend, an old acquaintance had lived so close to her. She decided she had to go
to have a final glimpse of the deceased.
She called her daughter-in-law and asked her to call the chauffeur. She got up,
leaving the newspaper behind and went to get dressed. The obedient
daughter-in-law followed her. The car rattled on the potholed roads and
sometimes sped by the smooth highways. And so did her mind, tracing down a
period almost 50 years before. |
She had been
shy initially, an introvert. It had been been difficult for her adjust to the
new surroundings. But Shruthi had been there always beside her, a source of
comfort, a shoulder to lean upon. As the days formed into weeks and weeks into
months and semesters and years, she had finally felt at ease with the place,
enjoyed the activities and company of people around her. She was among the
toppers of the class. She carved a niche for herself by excelling in sports and
co-curricular activities. She was admired and respected.
On the other hand, Shruti had failed to show much brilliance on the academic
side but had as good a flair in other activities as she had. There was
competition between them in many aspects. Sometimes these resulted in silent
days or silent weeks. There were never angry outbursts or protests, just silence
and the silence pained and created more bitterness than what the cat fights
could have done. But things did turn out to be better after some time before it
again turned for the worse.
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But that day was different from all other days. This
fight mightier than the others. The reason seemed silly now but had been a
major issue during those times. She couldn't remember what it was; anyway it
was better to forget it than to live those stressful days again. It can
something to do with a boy, whom they both fancied; she remembered vaguely.
It had cut them off both as never before and though they shared the same
room they had never uttered a word to one another from that day onwards,
neither in college or afterwards in the many parties and alumni reunions.
They had avoided each other. But today, she had to go. Maybe old age scares
you and makes you repentant. Maybe nothing makes you repentant and remorse
like death of a person with whom you had not reconciled during his/her days
on Earth. She had no tears but a pinch of remorse for what she had not done,
for all the years lost, for all that she could have done.
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The car
stopped by a modest gate. There was a black flag flying over the house. Nimmy
got out, helped gently by her daughter-in-law. There was huge crowd of mourners,
some shedding tears, some with sorrow-stricken faces and others just witnessing
and being a part of the funeral, of death that none can escape.
She went ahead and placed the wreath of roses that she had bought on her way to
here. The atmosphere was more or less silent and sombre except for the
occasional sobs of one of the relatives. Somebody offered her a chair. She sat
down close to where the body lay. She felt uneasy. The years of silence, the
years of animosity and solitude and self-centeredness had not rendered her an
opportunity to make up. And now the time was up. She said a small prayer, a
prayer asking the lord to give the soul of the departed eternal rest and also to
forgive herself for all the cruelty she had knowingly or unknowingly done.
The priests came and said the prayers. The body was being carried towards the
crematorium. A huge mass of relatives and friends rushed to get a final glimpse
of her friend, to weep and touch, to say goodbye.
Nimmy too stood up holding onto the chair for support as people crowded around.
She didn't say goodbye like others who rushed forward to. She knew she too would
follow soon. She just mumbled one word over and over, something which she had
refused to say many decades ago, something which would have helped her and
brought her years of joy in place of remorse, which would have given her sweet
memories to cherish now; with trembling hands she just kept mumbling, 'Sorry,
I'm Sorry....I'm sorry dear?
Contributing Story
Teller::
Gitanjali Maria,
I'm an undergraduate student who enjoys
writing. maria.gitanjali@gmail.com
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short
stories, visit Content Writing
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