Unbounded Love (Part 1)
“I’m sorry, Mukundo Babu,” she mumbled as she ran the blade over her wrist. Then with a determined swing of hands, she slit it.
She cried out feeling the excruciating pain. She hadn’t grown as numb with her disappointments as she had thought. For a moment she regretted her decision of dying. That too in such a grotesque and painful fashion. If Mukundo Babu would see her in this pain… Oh! Mukundo Babu! She deserved all the pain for having hurt him, for having rejected him… And for whose sake?
The effect of blood-loss started taking effect. She couldn’t feel the pain any longer. Just a numbness and dizziness. As if she needed to sleep badly.
“Mukundo Babu!” she had finally located him in the kitchen amidst the hustle and bustle of her wedding. The baraat was at the door. So, everyone had left her alone and went out to see the procession.
She was decked up in her wedding finery. Mukundo, who was taking out a bottle of chilled water from the refrigerator, had frozen at his place on seeing her. Then his eyes had grown moist at this sight. He had imagined her so often in this attire…
“Piyali!” he had barely managed to speak, “What are you doing here?”
“Are you angry at me?”
His face had flushed. All this while he had been pretending that she didn’t know. And she had cooperated in this pretense. Why now? On this night of all the time? Perhaps she wanted to move on without the guilt of hurting him weighing on her. He would help her with that! He always did what would make her happy. That night was going to be no exception.
He had walked to her and had kissed her on forehead. “No,” he had said, “How can I ever be angry with you? You are the best, Piyali. Always be happy.”
And he had walked off. Without drinking the water, he had come for. But she had known that he was still not going to join others in welcoming the baraat. He had headed to the backyard, where cooking for the guests was being given final touches. He would supervise the workers.
She had heard the music getting louder. The baraat must be at the gates now. She had rushed to the balcony of her room. There was Ahwaan! His parents had been cool and he had agreed to have a Bengali wedding. How gorgeous he had looked in a typical Bengali groom’s attire. Her heart had leapt with joy.
—
Mukundo Thakur was particularly restless that day. It was Piyali’s six month wedding anniversary. It had been almost three months since he had talked to her. One fine day, she had stopped taking his call.
He visited her mother, Debangi, as usual. Piyali’s father, Debendra Banerjee, had died in an accident when Piyali was only six months old. Since then Mukundo’s father had helped Debangi in managing her home and property. After he also died, the responsibility fell on Mukundo’s shoulders, which he had taken up devotedly.
Debangi talked about Piyali. But she always assumed that Mukundo would also have spoken to her. So, she didn’t bother getting into specifics. Her chatter usually conveyed a general impression of hers that everything was all right with her and she was happy.
So long as she was happy, he was content. Sad and lonely; but content. Where did this restlessness come from today? The only time he had felt this restless in past was when she had sprung up the news of her lover to them. There was someone she had wanted to marry.
He had been informed by Debangi, who had been out of her depths. “Ahwaan Sharma! Mukundo. She couldn’t find anyone in the community…”
“Kaki,” he had assured her while fighting his own restlessness, “Let me talk to her. You don’t need to worry about his caste and community. These things don’t matter these days. So long as he makes a good husband for Piyali…”
Piyali had looked mortified, when he had suddenly questioned her, “How come you never told me about this, Piyali?”
She had stayed silent.
“Is he really a good boy? Will he keep you happy?”
“Yes Mukundo Babu. We get along very well… We really like each other,” she had somehow found her voice.
“I will take your words for it.”
“Ma is upset.”
“If you have made the right choice, Piyali, getting her to agree is my responsibility. Don’t worry. ”
“And how would you believe that I have made the right choice.”
“I’d believe you.”
His phone ringing brought him out of his reverie. Piyali? How come? After all these months? It was Shanta using Piyali’s mobile phone.
—
“Didi! Didi! Oh my God! What have you done?” Shanta, her live-in maid, was bendin over her. Why was she here? Hadn’t Piyali sent her out with at least four hours worth of work? “What do I do? I must… You’re… Your wrists… Ambulance… I will call Ahwaan Dada…”
“Mukundo Babu…” she mumbled, while Shanta got busy with the mission of saving her. She didn’t want to be saved. She didn’t deserve to live. And she definitely didn’t want Ahwaan to come to her rescue.
She would later learn that Ahwaan was not in town. Or so he claimed. Shanta ended up calling Mukundo in Kolkata. She didn’t think calling Debangi and worrying her would help. He looked up the number for the ambulance service online and gave it to Shanta. He had also booked the next available flight for himself and Debangi.
—
“Seatbelt is fastened like this…” In the best of the days, it was impossible for people to focus on the safety demonstrations on the flights. Today was the worst day of his life. Debangi, sitting beside him, was worried. But he had only told her that Piyali was ill. She wasn’t aware of the real thing… Slitting her wrist? What could have driven Piyali to do that?
“I am a princess, Mukundo Babu. I will live life on my own terms,” he remembered what she used to say so often. He had wondered at times if Piyali had been hasty in marrying Ahwaan because of what Shikha had done. Expose his feelings to her.
He had stopped in his tracks on hearing Shikha and Piyali talk. Shikha was his cousin, who often came to spend summer holidays with him at Kolkata. She and Piyali had become good friends over the years and they looked forward to spending time together in summers.
“What if Dada were in love with you?” she had asked Piyali, in the course of their girly gossips, Mukundo assumed. But what on earth could have given her the idea? Surely, he had mastered the art of concealing such feelings of his, expressed only in that small, locked chamber, where even Piyali was not allowed to go!
“Don’t be absurd, Shikha.”
“No. No. No,” she had been giggling, “You have scooped out all my secrets; you can’t just get away with this. Tell me, what will you do if Dada wanted to marry you?”
“That isn’t possible, Shikha,” Piyali had been somber, “Tell me you are joking.”
“Why not? Isn’t he the one you are closest to? Why not?”
“But… No. That’s not how it works. I respect him like I do not respect any other person in the world, not even my mother. And I love him too,” he had forgotten to breathe for a moment on hearing that. Could it mean that she had the same feelings and same hesitation as he had? That their age-gap would make it inappropriate? But she had continued, “I love him, but not like that. He is someone I will always go to for advice. But my life partner needs to be passionate, wild… Like me… We are not like each other at all. We’d be miserable together.” She wasn’t even bothered about what, to him, was the only issue standing between them. She had considered the possibility and rejected him as a suitor. He had never imagined having this conversation with her, had never imagined proposing to her. So, he had no definite expectations about her feelings. But he had known at that moment that her rejection had hurt him immensely. He couldn’t have gone before her just then and still act normally. He had turned on his heels. She, probably, hadn’t seen him, but Shikha had. She had excused herself from Piyali and had run after him to his house.
—
To be continued