“Mamma, a man is waiting outside. He asked for you. I told him you were cooking pancakes,” he sank back into his couch comfortably and returned his concentration to a Marvel comics.
“How many times do I have to tell you, don’t talk to strangers!” she chided her eight-year old son, who in turn, frowned at her.
He crunched his nose upwards and crinkled his eyebrows. He resembled his father so much, that it unnerved her at times.
Dusting the flour off her hands, she headed towards the door. Adjusting her dress, she opened the door.
“Hi,” a familiar voice brought her back to her senses.
She stared at him, as if she had seen a ghost. She blinked a few times and suddenly, slammed the door on his face. She stumbled backwards and flopped on the floor, clutching her heart. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her nose had started running. She was choking on hiccups, she couldn’t catch her breath.
After calming herself, she stood up slowly. She gathered herself, and re-opened the door. He was still standing there.
Seven years.
She had lived like a widow for seven long years, raising her son as a single mother. She was convinced that, she had lost her husband to the ongoing war, but, there he was standing, boldly, blatantly proving the truth of his existence.
“It’s me,” he muttered softly. She jolted back into her senses. She had longed to hear this voice, to hear him calling out her name, to get him back from the snare of blood and bullets.
He was wearing a dirty uniform, it was covered with muck and stale blood. His hair was unkempt, and he had a nasty scar across his left cheek. He looked careworn.
She reached out, and took his bag from him. His fingers brushed against her bare arm. She shuddered, he was too real. She still couldn’t process it.
Her husband was back from the dead. He was standing in front of her, in flesh and blood. The term ‘husband’ sounded alien to her ears, she only had one short year to enjoy being married, because he had left for Iraq, the very next February.
The man standing at her doorstep, was a stranger to her.
“Kabir,” she called out in a cracked voice. She could hear the scuffling sound of his tiny feet.
What would she tell her son? Their son? How would she explain? She had erased all evidence that this man ever existed, in her life. She was used to being a single mother.
“Yes, Mamma?” he turned towards the door and peeked a glance at the man standing before him. He cautiously moved closer to his mother, as if trying to shield her from whatever terminal radiation that man was emitting.
“Say hello to your Papa,” she sighed.
“Papa? But I don’t have a Papa,” he frowned at her.
“I told you that Papa was away fighting bad men, remember?” she picked him up in his arms and concentrated on cradling him. She could hear that her husband was breathing rather rapidly. She hadn’t missed the gasp, which he had exhaled when he first saw their son.
Kabir nodded at the man, “Welcome home, Papa.”
He entered the tidy flat. She had shifted to the suburb from the main city. He had to make a few calls, before he could finally track her down. He had anticipated her reaction.
It was the child, their child, who had knocked the breath out of his guts. His mind was clamouring in shock. He just blindly followed his wife.
“I will arrange for some fresh clothes,” she pressed her lips together. She opened the bathroom door open for him and scurried away.
She was absent-mindedly searching her closest. There was nothing for him, but finally she could find an old sweat-shirt that belonged to him, and a pair of old trousers. That would have to do for now, she thought.
She kept the clothes on the bed, and left the room.
Kabir had already opened the dirty bag. She groaned, God knows what that bag was contaminated with.
“Kabir, go wash your hands, that bag is very dirty,” she shook her head. Her son grudgingly did what he was told. After settling himself in her lap, he began to question, everything.
She kept on listening to the endless interrogation, and finally managed, “Why don’t you ask him, yourself?”
“What if is an angry man and what if he is mean to me?” he furrowed his eyebrows.
“I will be here and I will scold him, if he is mean to you,” she smiled.
She herself had so many questions, for so many years.
He emerged in the faded clothes, and sat on the opposite sofa.
She poured him some tea, watching him intently. He was silent, he didn’t make any eye-contact.
“Did you kill any bad men?” Kabir’ asked, suddenly.
He looked up in surprise, “Well, I…umm, I fought a lot of bad men. Killing people isn’t right.”
“What if they try to kill you?” Kabir shot back.
“Well, then it’s a different story,” he shrugged.
“Do you have a gun?” Kabir asked excitedly.
“I didn’t bring one with myself,” he shook his head.
“Oh,” Kabir’ sounded disappointed.
After a silent dinner, when Kabir had fallen asleep, she sat next to him.
“You could have written once,” she said in a quavering voice.
“I wanted to, but we were compromised. My hands were tied, I couldn’t. Believe me, I wanted to,” he sighed.
“I thought, I was so sure that you had…,” she trailed off.
“It’s not your fault. It was obvious,” he nodded.
“When did you return to India?” she asked.
“It has been two years,” he sighed.
“I can’t believe it. Two years, and you didn’t even try to contact us?” she had started to cry.
“The terrorist group who had attacked us, were killed in an encounter and that’s why they let us return. All this time, I was sitting in Delhi, and I couldn’t do anything,” he looked at her.
“All I needed, was just a simple sign that you were still out there, that you would come back home,” she sighed.
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
She didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his fault, but seven years had felt like an eternity to her.
She had changed, she had become rough. She had to deal with the world on her own, and it steeled her heart.
She was relieved that he was alive. The initial shock, after finding out that he was alive, had passed.
Now, she didn’t want to be in his presence. Suddenly, tears and anger welled up inside her. He had left her when she was pregnant. He had left her alone to tackle the world, and the world could be so cruel to a young mother like her. She had to fend for herself, and live without the slightest hope of his return.
“So, what did I miss?” he asked simply.
“Nothing important, I guess,” she spat, “just the day your son was born, the day he started to crawl, the Friday he had started to say gibberish out loud, the evening he started to toddle, the day he called ‘Mamma’ out loud. You also missed out his first day to school, his fifth birthday, his first football practice, and the day he painted a Mickey Mouse on the wall. But as I said, nothing important.”
She rose up from her seat, “I know you couldn’t do anything and that this was beyond your control but I wish that you were here. I spent sleepless nights, just wondering what had become of you. If you were lying six-feet under an unnamed graved, if they never found your body and for seven years, I lied to my son and to myself. I kept thinking that maybe ‘tomorrow’ he would write to me, or that I would finally get some closure. Every day, I survived on hope, which fizzled out with every sunset. I died every hour, waiting for you. I don’t even know what this is anymore, what we are anymore,” she exhaled.
He kept his head lowered and finally spoke, “Will you please, please let me spend some time with Kabir? I have missed out 8 years of his life and I don’t want to miss another second. Please, let me get to know him better. I need to know my son,” he pleaded fervently.
Deepika sighed, he knew that Kabir needed his father in his life. He needed a strong male figure to idolize, and so she didn’t refuse. Their strained relationship shouldn’t affect her son, their son.
The next morning, she didn’t wake him up. She left for college, she had to take 6 classes that day. She dropped Kabir off to his school, and tried to fall back into her routine but his face kept popping up, and it distracted her. She hadn’t informed anyone in her family that he had returned. This whole situation demanded time.
But, she was tired, seven years from her hourglass had trickled into a waste.
She returned with Kabir, to find her husband cooking supper for them. She had forgotten that he was a good cook, and that he occasionally treated her to his famous Biryani. Even Kabir, looked intrigued. Dumping his school bag and quickly obeying whatever his mamma ordered, he climbed on a chair and kept asking questions. He had so many questions, but his father answered everything patiently.
“Should I call your family and inform them about your return?” she asked.
“I did, I already called both of our families and I have invited them over for dinner next Sunday. You don’t need to worry, I will cook,” he smiled at her. She didn’t say anything. She brought the laptop and started to ignore him.
Whatever he was trying to do, to make amends, wasn’t working. It was irritating her, she was not used to come home to the smell of a home-cooked meal, or to Kabir laughing raucously and another male voice joining him. It made her feel uncomfortable. She occasionally looked up, to check if he would vanish into thin air, leaving her alone and desolate again.
The week passed unceremoniously. Kabir was bonding really well with his father, and he too would tell him stories of distant land and magical countries. He would tell him a story every night before Kabir went to bed. Deepika was worried how she would continue it, after he left.
“Leave? Why will I leave?” he had asked surprised.
“You don’t have another mission?” she frowned.
“No. We were released from duty. I am free, to do whatever I please now,” he shrugged.
“And you’re planning to stay with us?” she asked.
“Well, we still are married,” he trailed off.
“Oh, please. Let’s just call this what it is. This is a disaster. We can’t pretend that our marriage even has a meaning anymore. I mean, yes, you can stay here for a few weeks, but eventually you have to leave,” she said.
“Why?” he was dumbfounded.
“Because I am not used to living with a stranger! I am not used to have a male voice disrupting my silence, or invading my personal space,” she gritted her teeth.
“I am your husband,” he whispered.
“My husband has been dead, to me for the past seven years,” she hissed back.
“Why can’t you just accept that I have returned and that I won’t leave? That I am sitting in front of you and that I want to make this marriage work,” he said angrily.
“What marriage? It is in ruins.
Okay, you know what? Fine.
I do, I do acknowledge you as my husband. But if this is what you want, acknowledgment, after disappearing on me, then you have to meet my demands and I demand a divorce,” she said fiercely.
The sky came crashing down on his earth.
Divorce? This would mean a battle for child custody, which he would surely lose. It meant that he would not be allowed to see his son regularly, which he would have to be away from the only sense of happiness in his world.
The war had changed him, the dark enclosed places had forced him to confront his own dark shadows, his demons.
He couldn’t bear the naked truth of who he really was, what his actions were, how many lives he had taken. His hands were dripping with blood, he had orphaned too many children and widowed too many wives, including his own.
Amidst all the guilt and psychological turbulence, Kabir was his only ray of sunshine. He brought him out of his coffin, he held his hand and took him to his world where there was no bloodshed, where there was no war or flimsy demarcations.
And, he liked being at Kabir’s world, the sky was crystal blue, it never rained nor did it ever snow, there. It was only spring or summer, with vanilla and cherry blossom everywhere.
He had to fight for Kabir. He couldn’t give up on his family, it was all that he had left. He knew what the only solution to his problem was, it was very simple and yet difficult. He had to make his wife fall in love with him, again.
He was running. There was nothing in the damned land, just black rocks. The scorching heat was burning his flesh, but he kept on running. He wasn't wearing any shoes, so his feet bled as the jagged rocks cut his naked skin. He couldn't stop, he could hear gunshots and deafening noise of bomb blasts. He had to keep on going, he had to keep running. He fell flat on his face, he hit the rock bottom, he struggled to get up. But when he turned his face upwards, he saw a small body. It was lying crumpled the ground. He was staring at his son's face, into his bloodied face, into his dead eyes.
He could feel someone shaking him by the shoulders, he woke up with a start. He was sweating profusely, he took a few deep breaths and blinked.
"You had a bad dream," his wife patted his cheek, trying to comfort him.
"I saw Kabir...I was back in the battlefield. It was blood and bullets everywhere, and I saw him lying, and I couldn't do anything," he said in a cracked voice, "I can't imagine what it would be like to lose him. I can't imagine the pain, the loss." He covered his face in his palms, huffing loudly.
"It was just a bad dream, nothing will happen to him, or to us," his wife hugged him.
He looked up at her, and grabbed her by the waist, and rested his head.
"You're here now," she whispered, "and, you're safe. Nothing can hurt you anymore, Bira."
He sighed, when he heard his old nickname.
It felt like another lifetime, when everything was normal. When they were on the same team, when they had the unity, to face everything the world had to offer them.
He had talked to an old friend, for a job. It was gradual, but nevertheless, it was a step towards coming in terms with his new life. He brought some fresh lilies for her, they were her favourite flowers.
"What am I? A 14 year old girl?" she laughed.
"You're never too old for flowers," he shrugged placing a swift kiss on her forehead.
She stiffened.
"You're too old to be flattering me," she stuck her tongue out.
"Yes, because sticking your tongue out is very mature," he grinned.
She was nervous about the dinner he had planned for their families. She insisted on helping him with everything. She was absent-minded, she didn't know what to expect. She hadn't talked to anyone, not even her mother.
"Why are you so jittery?" he frowned.
"I don't know how they will react," she bit her lips.
"Mamma, can I eat some of that cake batter?" Kabir pleaded.
"No. How many times will I tell you, its not good for you?" she chided him.
"Papa, can I please eat some cake batter?" Kabir turned towards his father, who snuck him a bowl of cake batter. He winked at his son, thinking that she hadn't noticed.
"You are spoiling him," she hissed.
"Its just batter," he licked some of it himself from his finger.
She rolled her eyes.
The dinner, to her surprise went extremely well. His parents were glad that their son had survived the war, her parents were happy that her house was not crumbling like a palace of cards anymore. Kabir, enjoyed being the centre of attention, and being pampered.
"I saved you the last slice," he grinned at her.
Red velvet cake was her favourite. She laughed.
"What are you trying to do?" she asked finally.
"I am trying to make my wife fall in love with me again," he smiled at her.
"And how do you think that's going?" she raised an eyebrow.
"So far, so good," he held her face, and kissed her.
Seven years.
He was waiting to kiss her, for seven years. For seven years, he kept on going just for her, just so that he could be in her arms for one more night, for just one more kiss, for one more embrace.
And here, he finally was, locked in her love.