He held her head close to his chest, as if trying to make her listen to the heart that wept for her. He knew, this was the last time he would ever hold her. Few seconds passed. They felt like an amalgamation of a moment and an eternity. His soul said "I love you". No, it was not a whisper. Just his whole body willing her to feel the emotion. He knew she would not understand. A single bead running down his cheek landed on her head. Though highly resistant, he parted.
His back towards her, he started walking away, aware that even a slight hesitation would lead to spending more time holding her. He could not afford that. He could not afford to keep his wife in agony, anymore. His wife.
He started formulating the ways in which he would convey what he intended to tell her, but none seemed gentle enough. Gentle? He mentally reproached himself for even thinking that there could be a comforting way to put this. This.
It was late at night. How late, he didn't know. Time had ceased to matter. But judging by the sparse presence of people in the long, white corridor, and from the previous nights spent there, he gathered it would be close to around 1.30 a.m. He began wondering why those few people still remained present. Were they going to face the same pains he was going through? Or was theirs going to be a more of "happy ending", as the cinema blatantly portrayed?
He did not know why he was even pondering over the irrelevant issues. He had a big task ahead of him, and a not-so-clear idea of how he was going to go about it. Perhaps, he was escaping. Only mentally, though, because, physically, however painful it felt, his body was dragging him into the general direction of where his wife awaited him. The other end of the corridor. End
He knew his tears should be welling up, but they weren't, and he knew why. Had he not prepared himself for this, his legs would have given up long back. But they didn't. And he continued walking.
Those times, the happier times, he knew his wife had planned for them together, they were now not going to be the same. Same? He wasn't sure if there were ever going to be any such moments now on. The future looked so bleak that even the bright light flooding the hallway seemed pitch black. The vision seemed to fade, and he felt as if he was staring into the darkness. The darkness felt real. Too real to be a figment of imagination. A split second of mental clarity later, he perceived that the darkness was indeed real. He had blanked out, possibly due to the amount of stress that his body was under. Body. Her body. Her.
With a jolt, he felt cold metal in his palm. Subconsciously, without even realising it, he had reached the door of his wife's room, and his hand was set to turn the knob open. Taking a moment to gather himself, he stood still. Maybe it was a moment. Maybe longer. He did not know. He had no way of knowing, only entering. He entered.
As he stepped in, he saw his wife's eyes meet his, full of questions she wasn't sure she wanted an answer to. The eyes begged to be relieved of the pain of not knowing. The eyes that portrayed dismay and hope; dismay, at what she knew she was about to find out, hope, of materialisation of the bliss she had always dreamt of.
This was what his eyes read. To others, they would have looked plain tired. The lifeless face, the dried lips, the unkempt hair. Clothed in the hospital's robes, she looked even more fragile than he remembered. He had been gazing at her for long when, rendering her voice forcibly steady, she broke his trance.
"You have something to tell me."
Silently clearing his choked throat, he made sure when he said it, she heard him coherently in one go.
"I have something to tell you. Our infant did not survive."
His back towards her, he started walking away, aware that even a slight hesitation would lead to spending more time holding her. He could not afford that. He could not afford to keep his wife in agony, anymore. His wife.
He started formulating the ways in which he would convey what he intended to tell her, but none seemed gentle enough. Gentle? He mentally reproached himself for even thinking that there could be a comforting way to put this. This.
It was late at night. How late, he didn't know. Time had ceased to matter. But judging by the sparse presence of people in the long, white corridor, and from the previous nights spent there, he gathered it would be close to around 1.30 a.m. He began wondering why those few people still remained present. Were they going to face the same pains he was going through? Or was theirs going to be a more of "happy ending", as the cinema blatantly portrayed?
He did not know why he was even pondering over the irrelevant issues. He had a big task ahead of him, and a not-so-clear idea of how he was going to go about it. Perhaps, he was escaping. Only mentally, though, because, physically, however painful it felt, his body was dragging him into the general direction of where his wife awaited him. The other end of the corridor. End
He knew his tears should be welling up, but they weren't, and he knew why. Had he not prepared himself for this, his legs would have given up long back. But they didn't. And he continued walking.
Those times, the happier times, he knew his wife had planned for them together, they were now not going to be the same. Same? He wasn't sure if there were ever going to be any such moments now on. The future looked so bleak that even the bright light flooding the hallway seemed pitch black. The vision seemed to fade, and he felt as if he was staring into the darkness. The darkness felt real. Too real to be a figment of imagination. A split second of mental clarity later, he perceived that the darkness was indeed real. He had blanked out, possibly due to the amount of stress that his body was under. Body. Her body. Her.
With a jolt, he felt cold metal in his palm. Subconsciously, without even realising it, he had reached the door of his wife's room, and his hand was set to turn the knob open. Taking a moment to gather himself, he stood still. Maybe it was a moment. Maybe longer. He did not know. He had no way of knowing, only entering. He entered.
As he stepped in, he saw his wife's eyes meet his, full of questions she wasn't sure she wanted an answer to. The eyes begged to be relieved of the pain of not knowing. The eyes that portrayed dismay and hope; dismay, at what she knew she was about to find out, hope, of materialisation of the bliss she had always dreamt of.
This was what his eyes read. To others, they would have looked plain tired. The lifeless face, the dried lips, the unkempt hair. Clothed in the hospital's robes, she looked even more fragile than he remembered. He had been gazing at her for long when, rendering her voice forcibly steady, she broke his trance.
"You have something to tell me."
Silently clearing his choked throat, he made sure when he said it, she heard him coherently in one go.
"I have something to tell you. Our infant did not survive."
No comments:
Post a Comment