Something I'm Waiting to Tell You

by Shravya Bhinder

  The rest of the journey was a blur. He could never recall anything that happened while they were on the train. The family reached Delhi and, unlike others who were taken to camps in and around Delhi, they were lucky to have his sister there. Along with the three boys, they went to her house. The scene in Delhi was worse than what he had witnessed in Punjab. In Radha’s house, living with them was her friend, Naghma, whose family had been brutally killed a few nights ago. Partition had done unimaginable damage and so many lives had been destroyed over a matter of days.

  Many, many months later, Mohinder found love again. He found love in Naghma. Pain brings people closer in ways one cannot imagine.

  Naghma had lived through the same pain; her family of ten was brutally murdered when they were trying to board a train to Pakistan. Her relatives didn’t keep her with them as she was a girl of marriageable age, a burden. She understood Mohinder’s duty towards the three boys, and she was loved by his ageing parents for being selfless and loving. She understood Mohinder’s pain. Her fiancé, who should have protected her, was now in Pakistan and hadn’t bothered to come back looking for her.

  In three years, Mohinder moved out of his sister’s house. They were indebted to them for life but then, one should always be able to depend on one’s family. And yet, people like Raza had lost their love, their lives at the hands of their own family—such was the irony!

  Once they had settled in their new home, his mother suggested he get married. Mohinder could think of no one else but Naghma. She had slowly made her place in his heart. There was still love for Raavi; that would stay with him for life and maybe beyond, but now his heart had expanded to make space for Naghma. He told his mother the same thing.

  ‘But she is a Muslim,’ his mother said in a low voice.

  ‘And?’ Mohinder asked his mother to explain. He didn’t expect her to object just because of her religion. ‘We love her, we think she is perfect . . . it is just that her people killed Raavi,’ his mother said with sorrowful eyes. ‘We knew that you loved her, and her family had asked if, after coming to India, the two of you could get married,’ she said, with tears rolling down her face.

  She knew! All of them knew except Raavi! He felt a sudden pang in his heart. But Raavi was gone and it was no use hurting himself over her. Moreover, she had died loving someone else.

  ‘But she loved someone else, Ma!’ he said with a loud sigh. ‘Naghma’s people didn’t kill Raavi. Our people did! They were our family friends, Raavi’s family’s friends . . . our neighbours. Naghma didn’t even know them. If we go by that logic, then our people killed Naghma’s family.’

  His mother had no words; she hugged him to tell him that she was happy for him as long as he was sure. In a week they had two weddings, a Hindu temple wedding, and a nikaah.

  Years later, when asked, Mohinder said that his love for Naghma made him brave enough to face new challenges. She made him see himself as the person he was to become. She made him the best version of himself. Naghma, on the other hand, just said, ‘Second chances! They are what we need to believe in, no matter what has happened in the past. Sometimes, you don’t get it right the first time.’

  But this book is not about Naghma and Mohinder. This book is about their great-granddaughter, Adira Kapoor.

  This book is about second chances!

  People wonder about life, our world, the world beyond our world.

  I do not.

  My world begins and ends with you.

  Ronnie

  I opened my eyes and blinked a few times. My vision was not exactly what could be termed 100 per cent clear but still, the sunlight bouncing off her silver charm bracelet caught my eye. It was in pieces just like my own heart; some charms were missing, the chain was broken into two pieces and the clasp that held the ends together was crushed.

  In the light coming from a small opening in the curtains, the ‘symbol of our undying love’, as Adira used to refer to it ever so often, lay broken and rejected. It looked as if it had gone through enough during that night and needed no more unexpected twists and turns from life. It looked exactly like the person it belonged to—Adira looked the same to me. I moved my gaze over to the single bed. There she lay bruised but calm; unconscious but at peace. There lay the girl who deserved all the love and happiness in the world; my life, my love, my reason to smile, my motivation to be better than what I was yesterday, my reason to stop worrying about what had happened and think of the future.

  It had been a few months since the accident and her body was still mostly unresponsive, but every time she opened her eyes, I knew that she remembered me, her mind knew who I was, and her heart remembered what I had done to her. The guilt was overwhelming.

  I moved my chair closer to her bed. There was a scar on her forehead; her hair covered a part of it. I traced the mark with my fingers and felt guilt explode through my body. Her eyeballs were moving very slowly behind her closed eyelids as if she was dreaming of something serene and calm, like the sea or maybe music . . . she loves music. Her lips were parted slightly and she breathed softly, making hardly any sound. The rise and fall of her chest was calming to look at. The motion meant that she was alive, breathing, and recovering as I looked at her. I knew that she would one day get up and talk to me. I wondered what she remembered about me, about us. I took her hand in mine. Her delicate, skinny fingers lay limply in my big hands. Her index finger still had signs of the gold band that once was her constant companion. I curled my fingers and intertwined them in hers. Her hands were not as warm as I remembered them to be. I raised her fingers to my lips and kissed them lightly; her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t open her eyes. I felt tears swelling in the corner of my eyes. The room smelt of medicines and floor cleaner and yet, as I moved my forehead to touch it with hers, I felt her fragrance fill me—British Rose. The smell was a lie; I knew it, but it gave me comfort to know that my mind remembered even the smallest of details.

  Almost everyone who knew what had happened had told me that the accident was not my fault. Most believed that it was fate. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time. But I clearly remembered ignoring her pleas to head back home with me. I could still recall how rudely I had told her that she was ‘dead to me’. Of course, I was not aware of what fate had in store for us next. It was true that no one could have predicted the accident when I let her go back with strangers. I was not aware of what could happen; probably it was in the destiny of that car to collide with the truck. But if I had behaved well with her, she would have not left in that car; if I would have been more considerate, we would have been together. If I would have not been the inconsiderate jerk that I was that evening, and mustered some courage to get down from the car to help the people stuck inside it after the accident, she would have been rescued from the wreck sooner. The others were dead upon impact, but she was alive and she had suffered for the next four hours before a passerby found her and took her to the hospital. How could I forgive myself for that? Maybe the accident was in her destiny, maybe it was to happen regardless of what had transpired between us that night. But what happened after that was my doing. I was there as she lay in the wreck, I was supposed to take her out, take her to the hospital, ensure that the blood loss was minimal. I was given a chance, I was given a way to be there for her when she needed me. But I was too drunk at that moment to think straight, to even walk straight for that matter. I failed her and I knew it. I had failed her on so many occasions and no matter what anyone else thought of my role in the entire scheme of things, I knew that I was the one to blame. I knew that I was wrong, I had wronged her!

  I love her so much that if it were possible, I would go back in time and change everything that led to her being bedridden. If fate didn’t permit that, then, at the very least, I would have taken her place. I would have happily taken all her suffering. But I could not because life does not always give you second chances at the same thing. I could not reverse time, I could never replace her. All I could do was to pray for her spe
edy recovery, help her in any and every way that I could, and hope that she would still love me when she regained her consciousness—if ever she did. The last bit was too much to ask for, and I knew that, but I was ready to work to get her love back.

  I knew that it would be tough for her. She had been treated unfairly by not just me but also by fate, which she talked about so much. Every morning I tried to focus on the positives in life and not think of all the could-have-beens. I focused more on the amazing life we could build together when she got up and if she wanted to be with me. Honestly, I was somewhat looking forward to the day when she would get up to tell me how much she hated me, blame me for the time she had lost, despise me for the way I had treated her, get angry for the bruises my selfishness had given her. I was dying to hear her voice, see expressions on her face, the day she would recognize me again, cry again, get angry with me—do anything.

  While my heart still clung to the idea of us falling in love again, I knew that was a lot to ask from her. I also knew that it was a lot of work for me to make her fall in love with me all over again, but I was looking forward to that too. After all, we never give up when things matter to us the most. When we give up on dreams, it means that we never really were very passionate about them, because with passion comes will, and with will comes the determination to reach our goals. Living a beautiful life with her was my goal, giving her everything that she deserved was my goal. And even if this time I would be unable to make her love me back, I would still be happy just knowing that she was happier away from me as long as she was healthy and loved her life the way it was.

  For the last few days that I had been around her, I observed that now and then her eyelids fluttered. She had started blinking and moving her eyes. It was not a lot but was enough for all of us to believe that she was going to be well really soon.

  Every time I visited her, her mother wanted me to go away. She did not like me anywhere near her daughter any more. She blamed me for her state and kept an eye on me the entire time I was around Adira. The only time I was alone with Adira was when she had a work call or was making food. She never really liked me; she had expressed her displeasure when Adira had told her about me and never thought that I was a match for her beautiful daughter. But since the accident, she’d come to hate me. I did not blame her. I also understand that she meant well; she meant well for her daughter who had trusted me. Had I been in her place, as a parent, I would have felt the same, done the same, and behaved in a worse manner. I would not have let the person responsible for my child’s pain come anywhere near my child for life. Adira’s mother was letting me come to visit her daughter. She even cooked me a meal when I stayed over. She doesn’t blame me vocally; her silence says it all. My respect for the woman had been elevated to unimaginable heights because she is single-handedly taking care of Adira, her expenses, her care. I knew that I had messed up, I knew that I had taken her for granted, I knew that I had broken her heart and hurt her.

  If I could go back in time and fix it, I would. I could not, though, no one could. I loved her, always did, and will always do. I prayed for her to get well every time I joined my hands to pray. I prayed for her to be able to listen to me when I repeatedly asked for her forgiveness sitting beside her. I prayed for her to forgive me, I prayed for her to take me back but mostly, I prayed for her to be herself again. For whether she gave me another chance or not, I prayed for her to live her life happily and in love, with me in it or without me.

  I prayed for Adira to be well again.

  You do not know what helplessness is until you go through it on your own. I would not wish for anyone to know the true meaning of helplessness. A lot is lost in trying to navigate between not understanding and truly understanding the meaning of this wretched word.

  Adira

  Chandigarh

  ‘But I want to stay, please,’ I heard a familiar voice. I knew that the voice belonged to someone I knew, someone I was close to, but who? I could not connect the voice to a face, or any voice to any face. My vision was blurry and I could not move my eyes, they felt as heavy as rocks. Yet this time when I came out of the darkness something felt different. With hope, I once again tried to move my limbs—nothing.

  We hear of someone being helpless and think that we can understand what the state of helplessness is. It is a feeling when someone cannot help themselves, no matter how much they try—isn’t it? The fact is, we never really understand the true meaning of helplessness until we are in the state. I was helpless as I recalled nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing. All I was capable of was hearing a few words every now and then; some clear, others incomprehensible. The words hardly made any sense to me without the context. Thankfully, I still knew who I was and the last memory of mine served enough to figure out why I was the way I was. I had been in a freak accident.

  I could sense that there was definitely some light in the room—daytime, I deduced. Blurry movements happened right in front of me and then came some whispers. There was more than one person in the room.

  What was the day today?

  Or even the date?

  Some days, I wonder what happened to all the other people who were with me in the car that night. I hoped they had managed to escape but I could only wonder since I was not in a state to do anything else to satisfy my curiosity.

  Pondering over what I recalled from my life, I felt the darkness return. My brain fogged.

  The next time my blurry vision returned, the place was dark.

  Night, I assumed. And then it happened.

  Blink.

  I felt my eyelids close and open. My surroundings remained dark but there was a definite flutter of my eyelids.

  Is it possible to feel things that are not happening? I wondered.

  I had been trying to feel something, anything, for so long that probably my mind was playing one of its nasty tricks—was my first thought. That explained it.

  I wanted to drift back into sleep or whatever it was. The blurry visions and some sounds were the only impressions that had kept me feeling like a human being. I felt my breath going in and out of my lungs but was still unable to move. I heard a little groan in the room, someone was sleeping very close to me, and they groaned again—that was when it happened again.

  Blink.

  A few more blinks convinced me that it was indeed happening. I was blinking. The rest of my body was as non-responsive as it was the last time I checked. And suddenly my eyelids were once again as heavy as stones. The blinking stopped until I felt daylight hit my eyelids again.

  Our brain is a funny little thing. It knows what is good for us and what is not—all good things are intensified and glorified in our memories and the bad ones are suppressed over time for them to hurt us less.

  Adira

  December 2019

  What I felt during those months is now a blur. The world moved on without me, but I knew that there were only two people who did not. Only two people in the world whose lives froze in time in the hope that I would recover one day. It was probably this hope, their faith in me, their faith in destiny, that kept me alive, that made my body recover while the doctors had no clue why and how it was happening.

  The accident broke three of my ribs, a leg, my shoulder was dislocated, but all this could be fixed. The doctors knew that. The body parts could be fixed. What they were not sure of were my brain, and my nervous system. I was in and out of a coma for some time. I lost my pulse on two different occasions and yet there I was, one and a half years later, sitting on the rooftop with my mother; listening to her, giving her weak smiles, which were all that she wanted. She was talking about an incident from my childhood that I do not have any memory of. Just like the accident that I do not remember much of. She was telling me how I fell from a bicycle and then never really learnt how to ride. I could see her revisiting the scene; it was in her eyes. They sparkle every time she talks about my childhood. I love the sparkle in her eyes, it means the world to me now. My mother stood by my side, and nursed m
e back to health as if I was still a baby. This is how mothers are! Their love knows no bounds. No matter how old you are, they treat you like a child because you are their child. I will always be my mother’s child. While I am physically almost well, my legs do give way at times and Mummy doesn’t let me strain them. I still use a wheelchair, but hey, I am not complaining. I am alive and that is what is the most important thing. There is a slight limp in my walk and my left leg is weaker than the right one. The limp will stay for life as per the doctors and so will the scars under my ribcage unless I want to get them removed by surgery. But I do not, any scar or mark from any time in the past is important for me.

  As time goes by, we tend to move on and start forgetting the things that made us who we are. It is these scars that remind us of everything that we have been through. Scars are precious, they are the time machines that transport us back to the past. My scars are most valuable to me; they remind me that I am alive even after going through something so intense. The scars remind me of my determination, my will to bounce back.

  You will have guessed by now, one of the two people who believe in miracles and never gave up on me is my mother. And the second person will be here to visit me soon. He comes over every weekend, stays at a nearby hotel, and spends his days with me. Mummy doesn’t like his presence in my life much. I do not blame her; she believes he is the reason why I couldn’t feel anything for months, why I was like a vegetable and was bedridden. She wants him to leave as soon as he arrives, but she doesn’t say much. They greet each other and she leaves me in his company. They do not talk but I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t like him enough even to be cordial with him.