Chapter 29

Papa returned home. My years in Delhi were now mere luggage. Household items were packed in various boxes. The car and the scooter were booked to be transported. The amount of work that went into it all and the number of boxes that needed to be kept in mind, made me regret having accumulated so many things.

Delhi was the same city where I had walked hand in hand, with her. We had explored nooks and crannies together. She took her last breath here, and her ashes were part of the Yamuna. Her imprint was now part of the city, but this same city now suffocated me. The growing Delhi population only made the situation worse. Now, my years of association with the city were about to end. I was all set to start afresh, in a different place.

Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in humans. Many times, my heart tried to call Anisha. Not with the wrong intentions, but because we were good friends. The insecure person inside me said no. Her WhatsApp status was the unofficial but only communication for me. I was not active on WhatsApp anymore, but I read her status every day.

I was taking stock of my luggage and checking off my to-do list, when an unwanted noise diverted my attention. It was the doorbell.

I opened the door.

‘Courier for Ajay Pandey.’

‘Yes, I am Ajay.’ I looked at the courier boy’s hands trying to get a glimpse of what he had brought.

It was a normal envelope, but when I spotted the sender’s name, I was confused. It was sent by Arvind Uncle.

I knew who the real sender was even without opening the package. I opened the envelope, making sure I stayed emotionless. A familiar paper slipped into my hand. I unfolded the letter. Anisha must have sent this.

Hello Mrs. Mr. Pandey,

It is all so weird. I never thought that I would write to you like this. But this is the beauty of life. It never goes as planned. Recently, I met a wise man who said, if you keep on thinking about the soul, then the soul will keep thinking about you. If I keep on missing you, you are going to miss me too.

I am learning new things, and most important of them all, is about the different aspects of life. To sum up, I am happy. And so should you be. I don’t know dear, if there is life after death, or not. But one day, we will meet, for sure. How and where? I don’t know. In which form is this meeting going to happen, I don’t know. I don’t want you to be sitting and waiting for this to happen. Till then, I will choose the path of forgiveness and love, and choose the path of life.

Love you, and you are the best wife. husband.

Yours Mrs. Pandeyji

I read the letter at least ten times. This was not just a letter. It was a message sent by her. But the rational side of my mind told me: you are the one who wrote this letter.

It hardly matters how strong we are, as masters of our own mind. We are still slaves of our emotions. The feelings I had been hiding for months were about to explode. I kept thinking about Anisha the whole day. Our meeting at that juncture in my life and getting to be the good friends that we became. I decided to fight against my inner self which was holding me away from the one who I wanted to talk to.

It was a Sunday. I was sure that Anisha would be at her PG.

‘Hi Anisha.’ I called her.

‘Hi, Mr. Writer. How are you doing?’ She still called me this.

‘Not good.’

‘What happened?’

‘I am leaving for Pune. But before leaving the city, I want to meet you.’

‘Sure,’ she said easily.

‘I am leaving for your place right now.’ I told her.

‘Is this the last time we are meeting?’ This was a valid question coming from her.

‘I am coming to meet my friend. Whether it’s our last meeting or not, I leave it to you.’

I didn’t know whether she understood me or not. I did not even ask what the outcome of the meeting with Vicky’s family had been. I took my time in dressing up. I checked myself out twice in the mirror. A voice from the mirror said: So finally you are all set?

I unpacked a box and pulled out two big bags. The bags which were the toughest to open.

I unzipped one of the two bags, pulled out one of her sweaters and placed it in the bag which had my stuff.

I carried the two bags to my car and headed towards Sai Kripa . It was an orphanage in Noida, sector 12. I often visited the orphanage to spend quality time with the children there. But today, my reason for going there was different. I met the children and distributed chocolates, which was my practice whenever I visited.

I was sitting with the caretaker.

‘Hi, sir. How are you doing today? You are not going to spend time with the children?’ she asked.

‘No. In fact, I wanted to let you know that I may not be able to visit again.’

‘Oh. . .what happened?’ She cast a glance at the kids. She looked disappointed.

‘I am shifting to Pune. . .Job transfer.’

‘I understand,’ she nodded.

‘I wish to donate a few clothes.’

‘Whose clothes?’

‘My wife’s.’ I did not have the courage to say more.

She must have understood why I was doing this. How sensitive the matter was to me. She said a little hesitantly, ‘Sir, actually. . .we do not take used clothes. And they are children, the clothes will not fit them.’

I guess I hadn’t considered this. I sat there wondering what to do. The bags were not a burden. They were something beyond, which I cannot write here. I can’t put the pain into words.

The caretaker looked at my face. She must have noted my dilemma. She offered, ‘Sir, I know an orphanage where teenagers live. If you are okay, we can share these with them.’

I nodded, my face devoid of expression.

‘Please tell me where I should leave the bags?’

‘You can leave them here. I will take care of them.’

I looked at the bags. I was not happy with what was happening. It was like my life was inside those two bags.

‘No. The bags are a little heavy. Please tell me where to put them?’

I picked the bags and she led me towards a room. It was a storage room designed like a warehouse. It was filled with lots of stuff. Flour sacks, rice packets, children’s dresses, school books and bundles of stationary. I looked at the caretaker. I do not know what she understood, but she left me alone there.

My heart raced. The emotions were overpowering. I kept the bags on the ground and opened the zip. Every dress had some memory and each memory held pain. The worst part of holding on to the memories is not the memories, not the pain. It’s the realization that the moments will never come back. One by one, I touched her favourite dress, hugged the warmth of her sweater to me. . .The bright t-shirt, her jeans, the gown. . .I brought them all close to my lips in feather touch kisses. The suits still had her perfume’s fragrance on them. I breathed it deep within me. The tears ran down my cheeks, uninhibited. I hid my face in her t-shirt and wept silently.

But whenever I cried, a sweet familiar voice inside me said, ‘You are not deleting the person, Pandeyji, you are adding one more relationship.’