“Who are you trying to fool, Pramath? Have you not always been fascinated by Ajanta-Ellora Caves?”
Pramath stood, gazing at the one who seemed to be mocking him in the mirror. Benumbed. His heart heaving heavy sighs as if it was sinking in a dark abyss. His lower abdomen couldn’t hold a heavy heart that had plunged into its deep crevices; it signalled for another bowel motion; fourth since the morning.
***
The banquet hall was teeming with some bragging parents, some judgemental elderly women and a few nonchalant teenagers. They were all being hosted by Pramath and Surekha on their 40th wedding anniversary.
“ The beauty of teaching history, if you ask me, lies in the fact that it compels you to have a thirst for languages, arts, music, science and so much more.” Surekha rolled her eyes as her retired History professor husband eventually came to talk about what she always termed as, ‘his eternal love’.
The future had yet not whispered into the ears of the cordial and chirpy host what it had in store for him.
A couple of days later, Pramath was jolted awake in the middle of the night with a racing heart and a sensation of tightened muscles between his thighs.
His giddy head wasn’t in a state to ascertain if what he just saw was real, a flash of memory, or just a dream.
Dream?
He rushed to the washroom. It took him nearly an hour to wash himself, his clothes, yet he failed to wash the stain of shame and guilt that a mere dream had submerged him in that night.
“And, did you not always look at Koyel as your own daughter, with the same fatherly affection that you have for your own Meher? Hahh.. you hypocrite, you mess of sweat and deceits!”
Pramath’s househelp Koyel, a young beautiful dusky girl, had been working for the household for barely a month. His daughter Meher, of her age, had particularly grown fondness for her. But not Surekha. She was vigilant. Like always. And Pramath? He knew deep in his heart that those almond eyes were mesmerising. And also, that he has always been a loyal and dutiful husband.
But did he know that his heart hid those entities somewhere deep inside its chambers who could, and would raise their heads some day? That a Demon would break free on being conjured upon by a pair of youthful eyes. How he wished, he had built sturdier walls around his heart..
The demon stood face to face with Pramath that night. It held the mirror, reflecting some suppressed emotions that Pramath had all along cushioned well under the garb of loyalty. It guffawed and reminded Pramath of how scathing he had been when a married colleague had shared his liking for a co-professor.
“Oh, you ‘virtuous’ simple man! Life humbles you humans, doesn’t it? The husband of a God-fearing woman, what if your wife too, harbours such feelings, for one of your colleagues or friends or neighbours or cousins?” The demon showed no mercy and his uproarious laughter kept echoing in every nerve of Pramath’s body.
Life has its own ways of reminding you that you have always been, but a spec of dust in this vast universe. And it reminds you before you go back to being one again. A spec of dust.
The next morning dawned like a heavy realisation; Pramath’s head was bursting due to the turmoil of the previous night. A thousand questions hung heavy over his already tired being.
“Will Surekha understand and forgive me?”
“Will Meher think of me as a lecherous father whose morality dwindled for a humble house maid?”
“Will God forgive me for this sin in exchange for all the good that I have done all my life?”
His train of thoughts was interrupted by a morning dove perched atop Gulmohar tree outside. Its rising crescendo of coo-coo-coo made him even more sullen, more restless. The gulmohur’s vibrant scarlet blooms in the lawn didn’t seem to offer any respite; the world appeared to be less colourful, more bland, more tragic.
He looked at Surekha who was still asleep, unaware of her husband’s predicament.
“So, this myth of having created a perfect life was all but an illusion; now that I clearly see that it can come crashing down by the jolt of a dream?”
A virtuous man, or not, he could clearly not shrug it off, calling it just a dream.
Pramath sobbed some more, the contours of his bulging eyes ached. He wanted to sleep. He needed his late mother so ardently, for he knew that she would be the only one who could understand him, and not judge him, and worse even, not hate him.
