Petrichor

By Debanjan S Kundu

July 2019: I am sitting back in my favourite wooden armchair, experiencing tiny twitches in my neck muscle. Groovy kind of love, a Phil Collins classic, is playing on a loop in my room. It’s been raining since yesterday. When I look outside the window to check the water level, I notice children enjoying their life, and young women getting drenched, hand in hand. I got back home late yesterday, my fourth year on the trot. My life has been swinging back and forth between my work and this apartment. Staring outside at the dark grey clouds in the sky, I travel back in time to the first day we came here. She was so happy, her face beamed with a smile and joy. She had dreamt of this house, planning long before the possession about giving the most aesthetic look to our Home. It’s not tough to understand the mental exasperation I have been through when she suffered a massive cardiac arrest in July 2016. That night too, it was pelting down, streets were flooded, and we had not gone to work for a couple of days. Then, she passed away, laying down beside me. I was trying to engage myself in reality with little help from anyone. I was shattered. I had had the taste of losing close ones first when I was 25 and then at 32.

I have since then lived a life of what you might call living one day at a time. Work has always been my priority, and it has always paid rich dividends to me. My ethics have always led me to believe in my duty and not procrastinate—no vacations since she left. But then, how long could I have sustained? I had finally booked my tickets for a solo trip a few days back.

I was lost in her thoughts; the rain slowly starts to lose its intensity. I get up, heading towards the terrace, which she had built with love and care, walk down towards one of the edges, and kneel before a collection of jasmine trees. I can smell the petrichor, and it brings me back to life. I love that smell; she loved it too. I sit down on the terrace floor and look upwards; my face feels the raindrops kiss my cheeks. “One day, when we will turn 60 and still get wet in the rain, with no fear of catching a cold, we will bury ourselves in this smell of soil”, she had said once, right after our marriage had taken place.

I am 35 now, en route to 60; she was defeated at 31. I suddenly get an urge to go outside and lie down on a clean patch of wet soil. Not being bothered about the mud spoiling my white kurta or hair, I just want to look up at the grey sky and tell her I am burying myself in the petrichor. I am fulfilling our wishes alone.

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It is raining and is raining quite hard. The glass pane is filled with tiny spherical droplets, reflecting Sree’s face. Sree drew some lines with her index finger, which seemed to vanish as soon as the raindrops fell. She went out to the verandah and looked outside. Her city was all flooded. Cars were honking, and there were kids splashing water. A girl was trying to cross the road but could not. A car suddenly stopped in front of her, and she got inside and went away.

The trees were all drenched, the leaves were filled with tiny droplets. A gust of wind hit Sree’s face. The skyline was painted with a mixture of blue and grey. As Sree was gazing at nature, it seemed everything had stopped, and there was a sudden serenity all around. She could hear the sensation of raindrops hitting her palms as she held her hand hanging in the open air. Sree closed her eyes and started thinking of Arya, remembering the first day they met. Then, the phone rang, and everything suddenly stopped. Sree went back to the room, picking up the call she had least expected to be Arya. Sree had hoped maybe he, too, remembered her the same way she did. “Come rain, and I will call you just to cherish our first meeting and forget that we had parted”, Arya had told Sree in their last meeting.

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He was playful, and she was rigid. She tried to be free but couldn’t be. He tried his best to make her express herself. Right from the day they got married, it seemed she had already presumed a distance between them. The first time he touched her, right on her chin, she was startled. Her eyes showed an uncertain fear. Soumya noticed it but let it go thinking it to be her nervousness about beginning her new journey.

Then onwards it had been 5 years. An uncountable number of their union, a miscarriage and a rejected job offer had already burnt her from the inside. Maybe to a much greater extent than anyone could ever imagine. When they lay in bed, in a room full of darkness, their only urge of coming close being slowly inhibited, their breaths becoming heavy with each passing second did she cry silently.

Tears streamed down her face. Looking at the ceiling, he held her hands tightly, pressing them. He knew no words to consolidate her loss or reason for grief. She had always been like this. Unexpressive and rigid. It was tough to understand her.

She never used to kiss her husband goodbye nor did she expect him to bring her surprise gifts. She stayed in her world, a world where she could only feel failures touching her life. She clearly remembered a conversation with him one night 2 years back. It was after they had united after 2 months of drought.

He: “Why do I always feel that I am not the man you ever imagined to be with?”

She: “I didn’t imagine anyone.”

He: “Did you ever experience heartbreak?”

She: “I would if you give up on me.”

He: “I can’t promise, I will try.”

She: “I have tried to love you since the first day. I am still trying. I love the way you love me. Love the way you make love to me. I love it when you bring me something I did not expect. I am sorry I can’t express it. I can’t express pleasure when you make love. I know you don’t like it. But I can’t. I do have a heart inside, but I don’t know about my soul inside.”

He got up from the bed. Then, picking up his tracksuit from the floor, he put on his t-shirt, drank a lot of water, and then went to the other room.

She lay there; her eyes had swollen with tears. She had nothing on her body and was shivering. It was 2 am in the night, a drizzle had gotten a little heavier. Finally, she got up; she put on her dark lingerie, then the gown and went to the other room. He was sleeping, lying straight. She sat on the floor and put her head on his chest, and closed her water-filled eyes.

May 2018- Another three years have passed. It was their 4th anniversary. She was getting ready for dinner; he will be coming anytime. She has realized that his love for her will never fade; hence she doesn’t fear divorce or separation even if she finally fails to become a mother. For the last 2.5 years, she has been treated with a low follicle count. Super-ovulation failed. She also has endometriosis and hence has not been able to conceive anymore. She would not mind if he sees someone else if he files a divorce, but she knows he won’t. Because he loves her too much to do that. But what about her? Will she be able to let go of Arya and love him? They have decided to go with the treatment and see where it ends. She has become freer now. She was doing a part-time job working out of her complexity, trying to forget the conversations they often have.

They go out for movies, dinners and get together. They talk a lot, fight with pillows, and have always loved each other’s presence but have they learnt to live with and love each other? Her smile had many forms, and each has a name given by him. They have an unconditional feelings for each other.

Six months after their 4th anniversary, she woke up one day to find a note left for her on the bed. She opens it and reads only two lines: Sree,

I loved you. I do, and I will. You are my dream which is fulfilled but there are many that I need to fulfil. I will be back soon.

Yours

Sweetheart.

She crumpled up the page and threw it away. It crashed against the mirror and dropped on the floor.

Six months have passed since that morning; being close to 35, she had started getting wrinkles on her face. She wanted to get away from there, hoping to meet Arya someday. And then suddenly she heard the doorbell. It was not yet time for Prabal to come. Her friend from college. She felt a rush of her hormones when she reached to answer the doorbell and was left aghast when she opened the door.

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She left the door ajar. She was overawed by what she saw. I was standing, with a man who looked like being tired from his troubled life. From the day they parted, I always had that feeling inside me that I should not have left her alone amid her happiness. Yet, I went to chase my dreams, my passion.

I noticed that in these 4 years, she had grown a few pimples on her face. Her chin was a little loose. But the smile was the same. The smile, which I remembered every time I thought about her receiving those surprises. This return was the second last surprise. I also noticed that she had lost some weight. It was the beginning of summer, and she was wearing a blue sari. I couldn’t recall if he had ever seen her being so graceful. But she looked good. She was yet to take a bath, but I could still smell her hair. She had disbelief in her eyes. Finally, she managed to cross the door and come out and held me tight.

We were having lunch together after 5 years, the last time we ate together was when she came to give me her wedding card. She couldn’t resist the tears rolling down from her eyes. They were not of joy but of grief and another disbelief that I had come only to go away soon, and now forever. After lunch, when I first felt her around me, Sree rested her head on my chest; I whispered, “Non-small cell lung cancer, stage IVA, I have been under treatment for last 1.5 years in Mumbai. Doctors have said they are trying their best, but they are not hopeful about my situation. They couldn’t remove the mass entirely last year; hence chemo and radiation therapy are my only options. I have been taking chemo for the last 6 months.”

She looked up at me and noticed that I had lost a significant amount of hair- that hair that once made her feel like she was dating George Michael. Sree’s first celebrity crush, back during their college days. The last surprise did her in for good.

We went out on the lawn for a walk. It was a beautiful summer evening, and the sun had started to set the western horizon with an orange hue. I revealed that I came back only because I wanted to be forgiven for committing the mistake 5 years back. I honestly, then, just wanted to breathe my last in her arms—my last breath on her body. I could not love anyone else in these 5 years; I tried, but she left me too, and I couldn’t care less if Sree too tried to do so. I knew about Sree and Soumya. I have seen pictures of them together.

I told “Sree, it’s time you started a new journey. I talked with Soumya, and he is genuinely sorry for his condition. My days are indeed numbered. I left my treatment. I came to you because I promised to come back to you. Here I am. You will have to promise me that you will not stay alone after death does part us. Soumya, won’t be back for good”

She could not answer, experiencing an inexplicable wave of emotions in her head. Her lips trembled with his words. She just remained silent and looked into my eyes. Those deep black eyes told the story of a man who had loved his past forever. The eyes that didn’t hold back his feelings, that were never afraid of chasing dreams. My eyes were not scared of death for a single moment. She held her head against my bosom, and we closed their eyes.

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November 2022- She was sitting back in her rocking chair holding a half-filled cup of her favourite Assam tea. It was my 2nd death anniversary. This time she was only visited by her in-laws. We got married six months before my death. Soumya had informed me that he had settled in Queensland, Australia and got re-married to one of his colleagues. After my demise, she had been asked several times to return to her in-laws, but she chose not to. She was better off alone. She didn’t marry anyone else; she married her work and to the thought that I had loved her till my last day despite being apart for so long a time.

She just recalled their last conversation.

Arya: “Sree, can I have a cup of tea, sil vous plait?” He suddenly spoke French, and she loved it when he did it. He looked brighter that morning.

Sree: “Oui monsieur!”

When she came back, she noticed I was sitting in that rocking chair. She handed the cup to me.

“Here it is.”

I took the cup and tasted it, “Ahh!” I exclaimed in sheer pleasure. I asked her to sit down. We started talking about how our lives turned out to be when I suddenly lost all my strength. Sree came up to me as I was still looking glorious. My eyes were all shining as the cup fell from my hand. Sree was sure about the inevitable as she held onto me for the last time.

By Debanjan S Kundu