If you could have your way, Brother, you’d wear a garland of those white-and-yellow cigarettes around your neck, proudly parade it in front of Dad, and say with the sly smile of yours, “Here, Dad, meet your daughter-in-law. Next month, when I go to Guwahati, I’ll take her with me.”
I can already picture Dad, his lips pressed into a thin line, his head shaking slowly, not a single word spoken. His disapproval bothered us both; it had always cut deeper than his silence. And you, pretending not to notice, would toss the garland onto your table. “Weren’t you supposed to bring vegetables?” Dad would eventually ask, still shaking his head. Just as he’d turned to leave, he’d pause, look back at you and ask, “Were you saying something to me just now?”
The same dance, unspoken and unfinished, playing out between the two of you, year after year.
If Mom were here between the two of you, she would have put an end to this little charade in a heartbeat. She’d have snatched the cigarette right out of your hand, probably thrown the whole packet into the sink, and scolded both you and Dad until you were forced to sit at the table together. But she isn’t here. And maybe that’s where it all began. The day she left us so suddenly.
You’ve been carrying her absence like a wound that never heals, Brother. You have been blaming yourself for her death. Silently enduring the pain of loss and suffering in ways no one should ever suffer. I’ve seen you cry in your sleep. I’ve watched you sit awake all night, whispering those same unanswerable questions to yourself.
But tell me, how could it ever have been your fault, Brother? You had gone to write your final exam that day. You couldn’t have known the neighbour’s gas cylinder would explode. You couldn’t have known Mom would be in the kitchen with me, her hands guiding mine as she showed me how to roll dough for puri and prepare kheer, the sweet dish we were making to celebrate your graduation.
You couldn’t have known that half our home would vanish in that single blast.
Dad was standing right outside when it all happened. He was buying vegetables and haggling with the vendor, talking over him to remind him he couldn’t be fooled easily. He was just turning towards our home when the explosion shook the ground. The blast was so violent that it damaged his hearing forever. He fell on the ground immediately, unconscious and unable to get back up without needing assistance from our neighbours, who came running out of their homes following the noise.
And you, when you heard what had happened, you came running back too, Brother.
I still remember it as clear as the day: you didn’t call out for Mom when you ran through the crowd that had gathered outside our home. You kept calling my name. Through the rising black smoke, your voice was all I heard. And then soon, you emerged through the crowd.
You noticed me on the ground, barely alive, but I was already fading. You watched people carry our mother’s lifeless body towards the door. Looking at you rushing towards me a deeply held sigh left my burnt lips. The shirt Mom had ironed for you last night, ironed and creased perfectly for your exam, was now torn into strips. Soaked in blood as you wrapped my wounds.
Soon, I had no strength left in me. My lungs filled with smoke, my eyes closed against my will. The last thing I heard was your voice shouting my name. For one fleeting moment, my heart stirred, and then, silence.
I saw you clutch my hand, your eyes fixed on the burning house. And I, already a shadow by then, stood behind you, resting my hand on your shoulder. You didn’t see me, but I watched you watching the flames with a hatred that could burn brighter than the fire itself.
And then, through the smoke, I saw her again.
Mom walked out of the house as if the fire could not touch her. I thought I was dreaming. She came close, leaned down to me, gently smoothed my hair with her hand, and whispered, “Come on sweetheart, you can let go now. It is all okay. Come now, leave everything behind.”
How could I leave, Brother? How could I leave you this shattered behind me? The kheer we had made for you spilt all over the floor, ruined before it could even sweeten your mouth. Since then, I’ve stayed here. Lingering in this house. Not haunting, not frightening, just waiting. I think Mom left because Dad eventually learned to live on his own. But you, you’ve carried the same smoke inside you all these years. It has never left your chest.
And now, Brother, I feel my time is coming to an end too.
Take my ring off your finger. Throw it into the flames. If you can, throw it along with all your cigarettes. No amount of smoke from your cigarette would ever be able to help you cope with the same black smoke that still clings to you.
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