Hope is not a good thing. It can break your heart.
***
“Mumma, can you close the window?”
Kabir, her four-year-old son, sat on the floor, playing with a toy car. Sayali stood at the window of her newly bought flat in Mumbai, looking at the sky. It was early evening, and the sun had come out after the rain.
The sound of the cars on the street was loud, but the voices in her head were louder. They were the same voices she had been replaying for the last ten months.
Sayali said nothing. She kept staring at the sky. She kept thinking about what her mother-in-law had said, and about how her husband, Nick, had reacted or not reacted.
She had given that house her patience for years. She only wanted a few things to go according to her needs. Was that too much to ask?
Kabir had stopped asking for toys. He finished his food without being told.
“Mumma,” Kabir called out again, clutching her skirt. “Are you crying?”
Sayali wiped a tear from her cheek. “No.” She forced a smile. “Something got into my eye.”
She looked at the door of the flat. Ten months apart, and she still hoped her husband would walk in. She still hoped her life would be as she had dreamt. Maybe Nick would stand by her the way she thought he should.
She checked her phone for a call or a message from Nick. She did this every day, every five minutes. There was nothing.
She had the urge to call him, so she dialed. But she hung up before it could ring.
She half smiled and closed her eyes. Her heart ached. But there was still hope, until one day there would not be.
She had left to protect her respect. She had never meant to hurt anyone.
In her mind, she was right.
***
Nick stood at the door, 800 miles away. His eyes were fixed on something, but his mind was unclear. The street outside had gone quiet without its lights. It was dark and lonely, just like his life.
It was early evening. The neighbourhood had no electricity, and the house had grown dark. There was no sound around him, but he could still hear the voices in his head. They were the voices of the endless fights with Sayali, about things he had no control over.
Nick had fought and defeated cancer. But he did not know how to defeat the darkness that shadowed him now. His father was fighting the same disease, and Nick could only watch.
He thought about his little son, Kabir. It had been ten months since he had last seen him. At first, he had tried to bring his wife and son back. But Sayali’s condition was clear. He had to choose.
He had always pictured one house with everyone in it, his parents, his wife, and his son under the same roof. Now, both sides were pulling at him, and each pull tore something in him. He did not want a choice. He wanted all of them.
Nick remembered the medicines. He picked up a glass of water and went to his parents’ room.
“Did he take his medicines?” he whispered, looking at his mother. His father was asleep, and the capsules often made him drowsy.
His mother nodded.
“We have to go for chemo tomorrow. Please wake him up early.” Nick turned down the small emergency lamp.
“Nick?” his mother called.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Any call or message from Sayali?”
“No, nothing.” Nick took a deep breath.
“Why don’t you listen to her?”
“Listen to her?” Nick chuckled and shook his head. “She wants me to pick either her or you two.”
“Just listen to her and move ahead with your lives,” his mother said. Her voice was shaky. She knew what it would mean. She would have to look after her ailing husband alone, with her knee problems growing worse with age. But she cared more about her grandson’s life.
Nick did not know what to say. The choice had been forced on him, and he hated it.
He stood at the door, looking at the pictures from Kabir’s last birthday in the last light from the window. The entire family had celebrated together that day, and then all hell had broken loose.
His eyes were misty as he looked at the family portrait. He brought the picture to his lips and hoped for the world that could have been.
A few talks at the right time could have fixed all of it. He could not bear to lose either side.
He had the urge to call her, so he dialed. But he hung up before it could ring.
He only wanted to protect the life he had always pictured, one house with everyone in it.
In his mind, he was right.
***
Later that evening, Nick’s father sat on the verandah. He had woken from his sleep. He was recovering from the radiation, but it had taken a toll on his body. He felt weaker now.
He often sat there, watching the little kids play. He remembered how he used to take his grandson to the park, and how he felt young and full of energy even after hours of play.
Nick’s mother sat beside him and passed him a cup of tea. She looked at a child passing by the house. She remembered how she used to walk to the gate to feed her grandchild. Most times she replayed in her mind how a small remark had turned into a fight of egos.
It had started with small things. A word taken the wrong way, a silence read as an insult. Each misunderstanding was added to the last, until nobody remembered how it began.
She looked at the gate again. It was the same gate through which her daughter-in-law had walked out with the child. That was the last time they had seen their grandchild.
They had built that home with their own hands. When Sayali asked for changes, it felt as if she wanted to change everything. If they changed too much now, they would live the last few decades in a house that wasn’t theirs.
Both of them kept looking at the gate, hoping to see him walk through it again.
Nick’s mother picked up her phone from the tray. She had the urge to call her daughter-in-law, so she dialed. But she hung up before it could ring.
Her husband saw it. He said nothing.
They had risen from nothing to build that house. It was their whole life, standing in bricks. They could not let it break.
In their minds, they were right.
***
In Mumbai, at the same hour, Kabir played with his toy cars. Every now and then, he ran to the window to check whether the ground outside had dried. It had rained until the afternoon.
“Mumma,” the little boy called.
“Yes?” Sayali came running into the hall.
“Why is Papa not coming to take us to the park? I love riding in his car.”
Kabir asked the same question every day. Sayali made excuses, such as “Papa is in the office,” or “Papa is unwell.” She often promised that he would come.
Kabir knew he would not.
“Let’s go to the park,” Sayali said, looking at her child’s grim face.
Kabir walked slowly, gripping his mother’s finger with one hand and his toy car with the other. He looked at the swings where the little kids played cheerfully.
He looked at an old man gently pushing a child on a swing, and pointed at them without saying a word.
“Do you want to sit on the swing?” Sayali asked.
Kabir only gripped her finger tighter and pulled her ahead with all the strength he could gather. He paused near the slide and watched the kids climbing the stairs, while their grandparents cheered from the other end.
“Do you want to go to that slide?” Sayali asked.
Kabir gripped her finger a little tighter and pulled her forward. They passed the seesaw, then the sandpit, then the sound sculptures. Kabir kept pulling her until they reached the far end of the park.
“What’s wrong, Kabir?” Sayali knelt down to ask.
Kabir looked at the gate in front of him. Somewhere in his small mind, the park was where things would go back to how they were. Papa’s car would be waiting outside. Grandma would be standing there with his plate.
“Is Grandma coming to feed me?”
He kept looking at the gate as if she would.
He looked at the swings again and pointed at an old man playing with his grandson. “Is Grandpa coming to play with me?”
He looked at the toy car in his hands and drew it close to his chest. “Is Papa coming to play with me and my car?”
He got no answer.
The gate stayed empty. He did not move.
In his mind, the little boy knew he had done something wrong.
Cozy Stories for Quiet Evenings
Genres: General Fiction / Humor, General Fiction / Literary Fiction, and General Fiction / Short Stories & Novellas
Stories That Linger - Character-Driven Fiction
Genres: General Fiction / Contemporary Fiction, General Fiction / Literary Fiction, and General Fiction / Uplifting Literature