(Puneet writes)
It was on a Sunday that the letter arrived.
The post man rarely came to their door. It wasn’t very usual for them to be receiving anything by mail. Unless of course you discount the monthly money order that Malathi amma’s son used to send her from Dubai. But this humid morning, it was Charushila’s name that Cheembu called out. His shirt was clinging to his lean, tanned frame and even the half-blind Malathi amma could tell his want for a pitcher of cold water. But Charushila just stood there, with the letter in her hand, staring at it as if words would start speaking for themselves. It was surely not a letter that she had expected to receive.
After Cheembu had bid adieus, Charushila retreated to her room, her sanctum that she shared with Parul. She felt grateful for Parul’s absence for the first time in her stay there at Malathi Niwaas, so christened by Malathi amma’s late husband - Krishnan Sir as everyone in the village called him, for he had been the teacher in the only school in the area.
“She must be out in the village with her brooms and masks, telling everyone about the plusses of sanitation. I would never understand what she gets out of all this community work! Such a misfit she appears some times, fumbling with the dialect and struggling with food…” wondered Charushila as she neatly and cautiously tore through the glues and heavily stapled brown envelope.
It had been five months since Charushila arrived in the village, with her worn-out brown suitcase. It had not been easy for her, especially because she had to leave her husband of three years to fend for himself. Months before she finally left home, she had told him about her plans, and he had given in to her wish after many failed attempts to convince her otherwise. She had called him from the village a few times, but the probing eyes of the village men at the tea stall with the STD booth made conversation a challenge. The letter from her husband was not only the first he had written to her, but also the only real communication she had had with him in a very long time. With anticipation, she straightened the creases on the letter and started to read.
(Suja writes)
Dear Charu
I have resigned from my job and decided to travel to Bombay or beyond. I am not sure. I shall be leaving the keys with our neighbors. The fridge has been emptied out. All the bills are paid. I have deposited three months rent in advance, after which you can decide what is to be done with all the things in the house. The scooter was giving a lot of trouble, so I sold it. The bank papers ration card and other documents are in the green suitcase. It’s just not the same since you left. My cooking is still pathetic. I could take your constant tirade but not this silence. I ask myself how I could have kept you with me but still have no answers. I hope you are happy there. I don’t have any contact number to give you. I don’t think it makes much of a difference, in any case.
By the way, on my last day at work, I received an STD call from some army chap posted in Pathankot, I think. One Girish Kunnath. An invitation to marriage, said he knew you from school. I could not collect your casserole from Raghavans. That woman is never at home. Monu asks about his Charu aunty everyday. I kept making stories about how all your attempts to reach this side of Nagercoil are thwarted by some calamity or the other. The trouble is, I was convincing myself more than him.
Wish me luck, some peace and lot of sense.
Yours,
Balan
Charushila neatly folded the letter along the lines and put it at the bottom of her pile of freshly starched sarees in the almirah. She turned the keys, making doubly sure it was locked and sat at the edge of the bed. She kept all thoughts at bay, conscious of the hands of the old wall clock moving towards the hourly chime. Her music students would be here in a matter of minutes and she did not want anything in her voice to give away.
(Puneet writes)
Despite her earnest attempt to wring out the name from her mind, Charushila continued to be distracted throughout that morning's music lessons. Gayathri, one of her students, almost her own age, even asked if anything was amiss. Charushila fumbled and blurted something about her periods. After a while, she dismissed the class stating she was feeling dizzy and retired back to her room.
Malathi amma was confounded by her behavior. She very well knew that music meant the most to Charushila, enough to have been the cause for her to leave her husband. And it was only last week that Charushila had skipped her kitchen duties on the account of her menstruation hallows, a practice that she herself had no need to follow any longer. Malathi amma knew something was wrong. But Charushila gave her no opportunity to find out what it was, and Malathi amma knew well to keep her distance.
Back in her room, Charushila unlocked the almirah and pulled out the letter from underneath the sarees, upsetting the neat pile on to the floor, into disarray. She stayed in her bed for most of the morning and early noon. She read the letter again. She lay on her bed, teary eyed, her hands stroking the crescent around her navel, staring at the ceiling. Unable to find any solace, she started to sob, her fists clenched, her nails tearing into the letter and a heart pouring out anguish out on the starched white sheets. "I should have told him... He should have known... He should have asked... why did this all happen?"
At about two, Malathi amma called out from the kitchen, ""Charu... The food is ready. I have made olen and kallappam, with upperi. And fresh pachadi. Come and have it while it’s hot...," called out. She didn’t get any reply. A few minutes later Charushila walked into the kitchen and had her meals, not saying a word to Malathi amma, who tried to chatter away the awkward silences by relating gossips from the neighborhood.
As she was leaving, Charushila turned back hesitantly. Her eyes lowered, and with hands knotting the hem of her saree, she asked, "Malathi amma, tell me something. Is it a sin to love someone? Is it wrong to desire something that you know may never be yours? Krishnan Sir used to read the vedas and you too have read the upanishads. What do they say about this? I want to know... "
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