She sipped tea, sitting opposite to a plastic chair in the small balcony, eating Marie. Twenty years ago she had found Marie too bland for her taste. But he had liked it.
She stared at the newly tarred road. There was no hurry. The kids would come only after three. They’d finally resumed school. All the relatives, her parents, his parents, had left. The furniture was back into order. The balcony smelled of the incense that had been burnt, and of the charcoal from the road.
She went back to it for a hundredth time. He had called her at eight. When he didn’t come by nine, she had tried calling him. By ten- thirty, she had called her brother and set out with him on the route he used to take to office. They found the car, with the hazard blinkers on. He was unconscious. There was no pulse. The doctors said it was a heart attack.
She had gone over the series of events each time she’d woken up to find her daughter sleeping beside her; she’d waited in the kitchen for the milk to come to a boil; she’d looked in the mirror after bathing. But now she waited for the realization to sink in. She shut her eyes tight, and waited.
She accidentally dropped the cup, spilling the hot tea on her bare foot. She didn't move. She just sat there, and cried.
You can read the last comment once again. The pathos of loosing someone very close was very loud on your face while you were writing this excerpt. You know, that is why a writer is an asset to the humanity because he can feel others' emotions to 'their' emotional hilt. Once you get into it, it may take very long to come out of it. Keep writing... It will make you more perceptible to others' emotions, especially pain.
ReplyDeleteyou know...you have a very british way of writing. almost like you've been a part of it. very mnemonic and in some cases, even eerie...keep it up..
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