Kaavish

A smile plays on her lips as she watches me buttoning up my crinkled shirt. It feels damp against my warm skin, and I watch her watch me, tucked inside the very blanket we were sharing a few minutes ago.

It is pouring outside and I almost consider not leaving, but I know better.

Watching her seam against the warmth of the blankets, while I leave on this winter night of November, makes me feel a bit envious.

I wish I didn't have a house to return to, or a job waiting for me to show up tomorrow, or any responsibilities that ties down a man in his thirties.

I wish I could stay with her, as long as she wanted, as long as I wanted, under that blanket, instead of driving back to my place.

“When am I seeing you next?” She says, taking me in, her brown eyes playful, as she twirls a wavy lock of her hair around her fingers.

“As soon as tomorrow.” I say, and God knows I mean it.

Today is the last day I am going back there. Without her. Tomorrow, she comes with me.

But she doesn't know that. Just not yet.

I fidget inside my trouser pockets, searching for my keys that would open the door to my house.

The only lights now are the lights from my car, yellow, trying to illuminate the darkness that circles my house.

It pours heavier than it was pouring when I left her place.

She had stood by the gate, watching me drive away, until she couldn't see me any more. I smile.

That smile quickly wipes itself away. A shiver runs down my nerves and I wonder if this shiver was more from the winter air or from the fact that the door unlocks itself.

It opens with a click and reveals my wife, standing in the darkness, barely visible. But I know that's my wife. I know that's Ruhi.

I stand frozen at my place. There's this eerie quietness that greets me, even if the thunderstorms are rattling through miles.

“You're late, Kavi.” She whispers.

Kavi.

That's what she calls me when she's in a good mood and I instantly release a breath I involuntarily was holding back.

My eyes move to my analog watch, which glares back at me, the hands pointing at numbers that tell me it's ten minutes to two.

I nod at her, and walk inside.

My wife never waits for me to return from work, she doesn't even stay up late. Her schedule rules out staying up beyond ten at night, and she obediently abides by it. I bet she has no idea when I generally am back home, every night. We barely talk now and it doesn't help that she leaves as soon as she's up, for work, the next morning. And so do I.

Some nights I help myself with what's in the freezer, and other nights I am full after eating out. And all of those nights, for the past two years or so, I would walk into my room to find my soundly sleeping wife on our bed.

I'd then quietly climb on, beside her, and doze off to sleep. But not before I've scrubbed myself clean under the shower.

That's how it should be, have been.

But not today.

Today, I sit at the dining table, watching Ruhi heat something up for dinner, and even if I'm full, I don't make a move to tell her.

The glass windows rattle against the force of the splattering raindrops, and in runs the cold winds of the night through the cracks and crevices of the now, old walls of the house. It feels dark and gloomy even with the lights turned on. And I sit, quietly, sweating on one of the coldest nights of the winter, my hands weaved together, sitting on the table.

The sound of a notification tears through the quiet air, higher than the humming of Ruhi. I quickly grab my phone, and sure enough it's her.

“Spam.” I say, passing my fakest smile at her, as I turn the screen upside down on the table.

She says nothing, but the humming has stopped.

Instead she walks towards me now, with a tray that leaves behind a trail of hot smoke. A wide smile accentuates her plump red cheeks, as she places the tray of ravioli on the table, plating two servings.

A pang of guilt stabs me along with a deep yearning.

I miss Ruhi more than I care or dare to admit.

I miss nights like this.

I miss seeing my wife smile.

We were in love, so deeply, passionately, madly in love, rooted in trust, respect and perseverance. We were there for each other when none other was.

I remember how excruciating the working hours would feel when the only thing I wanted was to be with Ruhi. How she would light up hearing my car approach the front lawn, waiting every evening for me to return.

Beautiful were those nights we’d stay in, cooking or ordering a takeout, laughing over silly things. Or the nights we'd go out. How breathtaking she'd look dolling herself up, and how gorgeous she'd look with three shots of wine down.

What went wrong?

I stare at her, as she takes the chair across from me.

“I'm starving” she announces and busies herself with her food.

But I don't. I watch her. I watch her like she'd vanish if I looked away.

I miss her. I love her. I do. I remind myself that this isn't a dream, or is it?

Another surge of guilt mangles me.

“Are you alright?” She says. My face must have given that away.

Her question meets silence. Or have I no answer? What shall I tell her? The truth? Do I have it in me to say it to her face?

How could I? Why did I do it? What was I even thinking?

I want to jump off a cliff at the sheer thought of it.

“You look like you'll die any moment.” Concern roots in her voice, as she places a hand on my back.

I instinctively jerk away, that gets her stoned, and I instantly regret it. But who wouldn't? Who wouldn't jerk away, after what I've done? After coming home to something I don't understand?

She is motionless and unreadable for long until she gives me a grin I don't recognise as being hers.

Something tells me I need to leave. Right now. But I surely can't. Not with this thunderstorm going on outside. Not when I don't understand anything. Not when I'm afraid my shaking hands would give up at the steering wheel.

A thunder rages through the dark, Ruhi doesn't flinch. But my Ruhi would have screamed. Even the faintest thunder shook her. She'd run to me, grab my hand or stick close to me, as if being in my presence was the safest place to be.

But it wasn't.

My eyes start to water. The guilt comes like a wave, that cheats you when you look at it, but when it hits you it strips away all the balance off of your feet.

I cry, I don't stop myself, I sob, like a baby, unable to look at her anymore.

“I'm sorry, Ruhi. I love you. I really do. I really love you.” I say, through my sobs.

Her hands hold my shoulders, “I think we should get some sleep.” she says.

I nod. I dare not look up, but I nod.

She waits for me to tell her. Tell her everything, like I did, until two years ago. But when I look at her, I can't.

What will I tell her? How will I?

Instead I walk into the darkness of the stairs that would take me up to the room.

Our room.

If it was someone other than me entering the room, they'd have dialled the police station to let them know of a case of suspected burglary.

But that isn't the case here.

I have returned back here, and it's exactly as I had left it, four hours ago.

The closet is almost empty, its contents all around the red floor. Ruhi custom made this floor.

“It'd look lovely.” She'd said.

I had laughed back then, but now, when I look at it, it does look lovely.

Lovelier, if I'm being honest.

The mahogany desk beside our bed is dripping off water that spilled off the glass jug as it toppled over.

The windows are shut tight, like I left them, with the embroidered curtains drawn.

The bed isn't made, but I don't complain, it's my fault that the bed is the way it is.

I don't bother cleaning the room. What's even the point?

Instead I walk over the mess, my feet pressing against the soft fabrics of her clothes, until my back meets the bed.

I glance beside me. My wife isn't there like she's always been. All these seven years, even the last couple of years, when we barely talked.

My head then shifts to the closet, half empty, telling me what I did. Accusing me. Calling me out.

I didn't bother shutting the door or switching the lights off. Or would I be a coward to admit that the lights turned on give me comfort and security amidst the confusion that has taken over me?

I pull out my phone.

“Miss you.” Says the text from Her.

I click on it.

It opens.

I read the text.

I was supposed to bring her back with me. Not today but tomorrow. Tomorrow evening. Surprise her with good food from the richest restaurant in the town. Then tell her she could stay the night. Watch her face light up, the next morning, while I told her that she could move in. Watch her get happy over that, watch her hug me in glee, watch her tell me how much she loves me.

But instead I do something I never thought I would.

I block her number everywhere. But not before a text saying “don't contact me no more”, reaches her from my end.

Tomorrow won't be like I wanted. She would lose her mind. She would cuss me. She would cry and she would hate me.

But it's for the better.

I place my phone back on the bed.

I stare at the door, maybe wishing Ruhi will come upstairs, climb up the bed, and sleep beside me. Maybe everything will be normal again. Maybe this is a bad dream.

But no one knows better than me, that this isn't.

This is no dream.

This is reality.

My reality.

And Ruhi isn't coming back. Not anymore. And it's none other than me who made sure of that.

Somewhere during the night I fell asleep, and woke up to my blaring ringtone, that cuts sharply through the silent winter morning.

Something whispers in my ears.

The screen shows an unknown caller.

I picked it up.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Paul?”

“Yes.” I say.

“We found an unidentified body some 8km away from your residence.” There's a pause, but I know what's coming, “We are guessing this is Mrs. Paul. Everything matches with your description which you gave last night while reporting your missing wife. Is there a way you can come and identify whether it's her, in the police station?”

I almost instantly said, “Yes.”

And then I hung up.

I didn't take a shower last night, let alone change from my work clothes.

But now as I wash my face before I grab my keys to drive all the way to the police station, I recognise what that whisper said.

While I was still in sleep, hanging on the loose thread separating dream from reality, it had said what would stay till I breathed my last.

It was Ruhi, and her soft, sweet mumbling saying, “I love you, Kaavish.”