Tangled

I hate Saturdays. It had been a Saturday, three weeks ago, when he left. Three weeks. I never knew when he would come back, or even if I would ever see him again.

No, no. He would. He has to. I stared out the window as the withered rose petals fell off and infused with the earth.

I remember that day like yesterday and yet like ages ago. The sweetness of laddoos that I’d made for him lingered in the air. As I’d packed those, a few of them cracked open in the chaos; just like my heart. Soft. And fragile. I molded them back, smearing my palms with ghee. They weren’t ready, just like me.

I recall how his calloused palms held mine for the last time before he left. And how a teardrop fell onto those, hoping it would magically heal those and bind him to me. Before the drop had time to seep into his skin and the finality of realization sink into me, he’d left. I had been left waving to his ghost.

And now, even after weeks had passed, I feel the ghee splotched on my hands as it was that last time I looked into his stunningly black eyes. My mind plays tricks to change that to blood.

I wipe my clean hands on the pallu of my saree as I get up from the window side; because the earth was still spinning. 

I walk to the mirror and stare at his ghost in my eyes. Unless you noticed the pure golden mangalsutra hiding in my bosom, you’d think I was homeless. I was a mess. When was the last time I’d cared to shower?

Sighing at the sight of the stranger in the mirror, I picked up a comb. My mind spiraled through the vast possibilities that led into dark nothingness as the wooden teeth ran through my hair; all tangled— as if in a mesh of emotions. All I feel are his rough hands in my hair, sliding down to trace my cheek. As if breathing in the touch, I leave it be. Tangled.

Something glistened amidst the disorder. Pearls. Shiny, like his face. He’d got those for my birthday. Meticulously, I picked up the necklace and put it on. It’d always been his hands that adorned me in it. The way his breath felt on my neck as he struggled to hook it correctly. The childlike happiness that spread across his face when he finally figured how to do this little thing, although he risked his neck on a daily basis and dodged bullets for a living.

No, I couldn’t do it without him. I unhooked it and let those pearls fall off. I didn’t even dare look at the earrings, for all my ears craved was his voice. It echoed in the stretches of my mind like being played off an old recorder. It has always been his soft, caring voice reserved only for me that gave away his heart.

I’m losing it, aren’t I? I decide to hide those dark circles under kajal. Reminds me of his mesmerizing black eyes, so annoyingly handsome that I could never look away. Discipline etched into the lines of his face, no one but me knew how his eyes alone engulfed me into the ocean of love. How those dark eyes illuminated my world in the murkiest of times and how the shadows in them spoke to me at night.

I don’t need any more of the color I am afraid of these days. Throwing away the kajal, I settle down on the bed. MY side of the bed. The other empty side haunted me all night. I feel the hollow absence, not knowing when it would fill. For now, all it occupies are those memories of moonless nights when the bright crescent had left the darks up above to chat with me. Brighter than those medals that shone on his chest. The tongue that usually spoke of organizing battalions whispered of love and life to me. As the emptiness becomes a burden, I get up and look around at the house. If one could call that a house.

Unwashed laundry, an overloaded trash bin, dusty window panes, and dirty utensils. And what’s the point in organizing it all when order left the house three weeks ago? When he left in that uniform and those sturdy boots, leaving me to pick up my life as he picked up a rifle.

I wondered if my husband was alright. Alright or not I did not know, but I knew he was a warrior. In that moment, pride embraced me. My husband, a soldier in the war. A fighter. He’s got quite some nerve, though I believe I have got even greater. It’s frightening when the red smeared in my hair is the same color as what’s shed at the borders. The pride outdoes those feelings in the race though. Involuntarily, I lift my chin up and run my fingers through those disheveled hair.

Some knots can be combed out. Some knots must be carried. Mine is not in my hair, but in my heart. A knot tied by a soldier’s hands, tightened by absence, loosened only by his return. Until then, I remain…tangled.