Manik's POV
"Almost...done," I murmur, fully focused on finishing up bandaging Angel's foot. Throughout the process, I haven't heard a single sound from her lips. I considered her to be a delicate darling, but Angel's the complete opposite.
"Perfect!" I exclaim, as I cut the extra length of gauze, watching my fine work with pride. I could've had a great career in the medicine field had I wanted one. I toss the scissors and roll of gauze back into the kit. I've been avoiding Angel's eyes since I began fixing her up, simply because I do not want to see the pain in them.
"You okay?" I ask, finally meeting her gaze. She's staring at me, her eyes glistening with clogged up tears; a few traitor ones streaking her cheeks. "The meds option is still open." Angel shakes her head, lips pursed. Considering she's not babbling away I'm assuming that her head is back down on the ground.
"I don't want to go back just yet," Angel says.
"Then you don't have to," I reply without hesitation. Frowning, I pick up the kit and return it to its designated place. Why the heck am I allowing her to stay? Isn't distance what I want from her?
"You've got a good behind, Manik." Angel comments, making me smile. I don't turn around, simply because I don't want her to see how amused I am by her newfound self. Maybe Angel should get high more often.
"And you haven't changed yet," I say, turning around once my expression is back to neutral. "I'm telling you, Angel, I won't babysit a sick child."
"I'm no child." She pouts, folding her arms across her chest. "And no child gets high anyway."
"Yes, that changed tonight." I grab the edges of the blanket, pulling them towards her. She kicks her legs like a tantrum throwing baby, making the task twice as hard. "Nandini," I take her name with a strict tone.
Her name always sounds so odd leaving my lips, considering I rarely take it. Before this entire marriage fiasco, I began calling her Angel because the name felt intimate. No one else had the right to call her that and so it made us special. And even though now I don't wish to make the bond between her and I special, I still call her by this name because it feels right. It's like a bad habit that I simply cannot let go of easily.
"Manik, I don't want you to hate me." Angel confesses, as I wrap her in the blanket till her chin. Her bottom lip juts out again, as a fresh set of tears fill her eyes. "I-I miss you. The old Manik. The one who didn't consider me an enemy, but a friend."
How do I confess to you that no matter how hard I try I simply cannot bring myself to hate you? Hating you wouldn't mean asking Sateesh to send me hourly updates regarding your well being. It sure as hell wouldn't lead to me installing security cameras around the place, so that I can monitor any suspicious activity at home while I'm out late. You wouldn't be sitting in my room if my heart was filled with such negative emotions towards you. I wouldn't have just treated you with more care than I've ever taken care of myself.
She reaches out for my hand, wrapping her warm palm over my cold skin. In what words can I portray the feeling that fills my body whenever she touches me. It feels as if I've swallowed the sun and along with shedding its warmth upon me, it also relieves whatever burdens are on my shoulders.
"I...I'm sorry," I say, unable to meet her gaze. An apology won't suffice, I know. What're two weak words? I'm sorry for causing her pain and making her undergo such tough times, but I cannot bring myself to simply be friends with her either. I haven't till date forgiven people for matters which are petty in comparison to this, so how shall I expect myself to let her off the hook? Even though every fiber of my being is begging me to do so.
When I look at Angel now, I can't help but see a Nyonika in the making. She, too, acts all innocent, but is truly a bitch in disguise. Unfortunately for my mother, the world hasn't seen her true colors, but I have. And I do not want to live my life with a xerox copy of my mother. Aren't I enough of her reflection that I need another one in my house?
I remember watching her sink her sharp, red nails into a factory worker's arm once. And what was his fault? That he had wasted a meter of cotton cloth. On that day I realized my mother is a cruel woman, and silently decided that I will never become a younger version of her. Maybe that's why my blood boiled when I saw the wounds Alya had inflicted upon Angel that night. Because they were a sign that my fiancee is just like Nyonika, and that was the first time when I seriously considered backing out of that union.
Alas, as I entered my teenage years and got involved in fights, I began to live with the realization that no matter how hard I try, escaping from my mother's genes is a next to impossible task. After being bullied at the start of high school, I also began to understand that if you don't showoff your strengths to others - before they mark you with scars - then you will become a walk over. A victim, someone who is inferior in the eyes of others. Along with this thought, I also began to see sense in my mother's actions, which disgusted me.
Those were the years when I started to hate my own skin. If I had a choice I would peel it from my body and chuck it away, like a useless banana skin. My scarred skin peeks out from my tilted wrist. Since peeling and throwing it in the dustbin isn't an option, these scars are the only punishment I can register to myself. To remind myself that I am a creation of nature that is doomed, and one that dooms others around as well.
Maybe I wouldn't have turned out like this had I properly done one job and managed to get myself admitted to the orphanage.
"You can go," I say, as I scoot towards the right side of the car to get out.
"Okay, but Baba, when should I come and pick you up?" My driver asks.
"Never," I reply, stepping out of the car. "I have other means of getting back." Lie. One task that I'm getting extremely good at. Little does he know that I won't be returning home. Pulling my four wheel suitcase out of the backseat and onto the road, I shut the car door.
Yanking the handle out, I begin to make my way towards the house gates. I didn't come here before because Ms. Ali had said that the shelters in our city are worse than roadside slums. But after yesterday's day trip of this place, I would like to strongly disagree with her. The common room has an air conditioner, and so does each of the rooms. The bunk beds creak, but they have sufficient bedding on them to keep me warm at night. I saw a lizard in the bathroom and a leaking tap, but then again, which house in Mumbai doesn't deal with such issues? And all animals - including insects - are our friends.
The children here are also much nicer than those that I meet in school. They don't bully me upon first sight, and nor do they steal my belongings. Two of them got into a tiff yesterday, but their mama intervened at once and sorted everything out. Something that my mother never does. She doesn't have the time to get involved in my affairs.
I step into the home's compound, my eyes searching the area for the mama of this place. She told us yesterday that we're welcome here whenever, and so I'm back today. For good.
"Weren't you here just yesterday with your school?" The mama's voice comes from my left side. I turn my head to find her crouching near a dense bush, a pair of those huge scissors which my gardener uses in her left hand. I nod, trudging my way over the uneven soil towards her.
"I've brought my suitcase today, so that I can stay forever," I say, smiling. I proudly glance down towards my hand packed trolley. "Where's my room?" The mama grins, placing the scissors in a wheel barrow, as she stands up.
"What's your name?" She asks, placing a hand on my head. I jerk away from the touch, startled. My mother never does this. The mama looks at me with a worried look.
"M-Manik," I reply, taking a step in her direction. She leans down towards me, a warm smile still lining her lips.
"That's a lovely name. What're you doing here, Manik?" My gaze flits towards her hand. Letting go of the handle of my trolley, I grab hold of her hand and guide it towards my head. I place it on my hair, like she did before. The mama watches my actions with the smile never leaving her lips.
I like her already. She doesn't carry a cold, no-nonsense expression, like my mother does. I can even count the number of times my mother has smiled at me, or at least for someone else.
"I'm here to stay," I reply. "It's time for my afternoon nap, so could you please show me to my room?" I've learnt that using magic words helps in a lot of situations. People tend to want to work for you when you do so. I wonder why.
"Won't you let me get to know you first?" She asks, nodding her head towards the front door of the house. "Come with me. I have cookies in my fridge."
"Oatmeal?" I ask, making a face. Tinkling laughter escapes her lips, as she takes the handle of my trolley and guides the two of us towards the door.
"Which child eats oatmeal cookies? I heard that's unhealthy for them," she says. "I have the magic ones. Chocolate chip cookies." Water fills my mouth at the thought of them. My mother doesn't allow me to eat unhealthy foods. She says they will make me fat and unattractive.
"What grade are you in, Manik?" The mama asks me another question. As long as she gives me chocolate cookies, I will answer whatever questions she has.
"Fifth standard," I say, my eyes soaking up all the decorations that are arranged in the main hall. Living here will be fun.
Of course in the evening I was sent home because the driver came to pick me up, as per Nyonika's order. But I never truly left the orphanage. I spent most of my childhood in there and till today I go there on most weekdays and just spend time with the children. After all, it's my second home.
Maybe if I had somehow managed to stay there in my youth, then I wouldn't have turned out to be the Devil I am today, and possibly then I would've found it in me to forgive others, including Angel. It feels as if not forgiving her is causing the very oxygen entering my throat to filter down in chunks. Squarish, heavy ones that get caught in my windpipe every time I breathe. But I've never forgiven anyone before, and anger is my best friend. Both enemies of the one who now calls herself my wife.
A/N: So the flashback is from the point of view of a fifth grade going student. And that's why I have tried to use simple language and make it seem as if he's narrating it. However, it is my first time writing from the POV of a young child and so forgive me if I haven't nailed it. But if you do like it, don't forget to vote and comment, because like I've said before, those two factors keep me going and fuel my writing process. Thank you for all the support you've shown me so far, I am immensely grateful. Take care and stay safe xx