My document stared back at me in desperation for me to complete my given task, but my eyes and mind drifted to the telephone on my desk. Waiting. I was waiting. Was it enough to pick it up and take it up to the window? Would the whole thing fall apart if I brought it closer to the window? Would the call disconnect? Connection fail? Words that were supposed to be said remain unspoken, unheard? No. No. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to wait. Wait for the call. Wait for your voice–your words.
My anticipation was killing me. The beating of my heart in my breast was suddenly loud in my ears. It was odd. One moment, I felt my heart clench, in another it fluttered, yet in another it pricked me like something sharp; not like needles, like the look of disappointment in your eyes. I looked back at my essay that I was working on. The latest sentence cut-off, incomplete. I could include anything in a written text, change it around, erase it entirely. But the heated words I had said that bitter winter evening two years ago; the words you never had the courage to say or stand by, would always exist as they were. No apology could fix this distance, this widening gap between us that continued to stretch, unless…
I looked at the telephone again. You always called. You always answered when I called. We were never late and always met halfway. Then work got excessive for me; essays, thesis, group works, internship, part-time. And you had gotten older. Calls went unanswered. Calls to get back to. We blamed all this on distance; or in your case, Ammi; my mother, your wife–and the divorce. In my case, it would be your unfaltering ego, your wilful naiveté and your questionable anger.
I got up from my desk and moved to look out the window. A setting sun. Cloudless sky. Cars. A man performing tricks on his skateboard in the parking lot. A woman in her striking red coat holding hands with a child. More cars. In the distance, I can see you listening to your favourite song. If I closed my eyes, I could see you. Which version of you should I have pictured? The one who helped me with my science project or math homework? Or the one who hurled the television remote at me fiercely? Should I have perhaps created or imagined a new version of you? A candid you that didn’t hide anything from us. Let’s see–
What did you eat today? I ate rice with chicken.
How long did you walk yesterday? An hour and a half.
What are all these pills for? For my depression and schizophrenia.
Why don’t we ever talk frankly? Your truth might hurt me, and my lies might hurt you.
How nice to be so open, so candid, so vulnerable. I liked this version of you. But why did I find comfort in your false image? I couldn’t mould you like how I wanted; you were your own person. It was heartbreaking that even after understanding and feeling your pain, I couldn’t help you. You’d built such lofty walls, years of construction, it was hard to climb and reach you. I had watched you collapse many times, but couldn’t help because your arms were longer than mine, keeping me at a distance. I watched you now from a distance as you coughed up phlegm, blood, courage, memories. Your vomit slowly reached my feet. Your filth had finally reached me. I found myself in your filth, a discarded product of yours.
I opened my eyes and the sun is beyond this day’s reach. It would be here the next day, so why cry? I wiped away the tears and their dampness on my cheek had already become a memory on my skin.
There was so much to share, so much to say, so much to experience. How could you give up on all that? Every sunrise was different from the other, depending on how you felt that day. You hadn’t even gone all the way to the end of the list of the bus destinations. What if you found something new there? What if you found yourself new there?
I jumped at the shrill sound of the ringing telephone, so sudden, so late. With a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, I approached the receiver slowly–one step at a time. Just like you had taught me when I was an infant. One step. I raced you down the hill as a young girl and you fell behind, panting, smiling. Two steps. We bid each other farewell at the airport; I walked away and you stood there, watching me grow smaller again.
I picked up the receiver and placed it to my ear. I could hear someone breathing on the other end. Was it finally you?
A sigh. A stifled sniffle.
‘Dad’s gone. He’s… no more.’
Oh. It’s not you.
