#21Days

Grief

8.00 pm

Time stands still. Right now that saying feels both literal and figurative. I grab the coffee mug from his hand and take another gulp. The heated liquid bolsters my courage. I take a deep breath and lift my head to look into his eyes. The moment I do that, my courage fails me. I avert my eyes. Another deep breath. Another gulp.

"So?" he asks, bending to retrieve the papers that have been lying on the coffee table since the crack of dawn. I grab them from his hands, mine shivering with nervousness. Just as I am about to take my hand away, he holds them with his warm hands, infusing the much-needed strength into my being.

The only fond memory I have of my father was him teaching me how to ride a bike. I would've been 8 at that time. My neighbors were moving away and they left their daughter's old bike with us. I was super excited. But I had never driven a bike before. My Dad took it to a local cycle repair shop and had it fitted with training wheels.

The first time I rode it, it was easy. I was fine. Dad was happy. I was happy. I enjoyed going around the neighborhood on my bike. I was able to get to places faster. It was fun running small errands for Mom, dropping stuff off at the neighbors, or picking stuff up from them. But soon after, I realized I my bike was slower than that of the other kids in the neighborhood. When I asked Dad about it, he told me it was because of the training wheels.

Stubborn me threw a fit and insisted to have them removed. I wanted to be able to ride my bike as fast as the other kids. After two weeks of incessant crying and pestering, my Dad finally gave in. He took it back to the cycle repair shop and had the training wheels taken off. The next day, I sat on my bike without the training wheels, filled with pride and eager to race the other kids on the block. Five minutes later I was back home with two excessively scraped knees, to witness the "I told you so" look on my Dad's face!

"We need to talk about it," I tell him.

"I'm waiting," he responds scooching back to put some distance between us. I hold his hand to stop him.

"Please," my eyes are filled with unshed tears as I beg him to not go any further than he already is. He stops.

I close my eyes. A teardrop escapes without my knowledge. I open my eyes to find that teardrop on the tip of his index finger. The simple gesture of love and acceptance defeats my zeal. I sigh, exhausted.

"Rohit, why do you care for me so much?" I need to know. Although I want us to have a happily ever after, I've realized Rohit's happiness is far more important to me.

He looks at me, his eyes confused. I close my eyes. When I open them again, there is a sense of deathly calm, an acceptance of whatever life is going to throw at me. I don't know about Rohit, but I can never move forward, in this relationship or any other, if I don't find the answer to this one question.

"The last time we were here together, I said some terrible things about you and your family."

He's quiet, neither acknowledging nor denying my statement. For the first time, I'm grateful for that silence.

"If I were you, I would never want to look at me again, and yet here you are, with me, taking care of me, loving me. Why?"

He smiles. I've learnt to read his smiles. This one has pain. I feel ashamed. Ashamed for putting him through this turmoil, making him relive that experience. Once again, I'm being selfish. Would it be so bad if I just let things be?

My mother's voice echoes through my head. Sometimes, the only way is to start all over again. And in order to do that, you need to clean the slate.