#1. Knock

“Please don’t leave me”, were the words uttered by him in between sobs, in an agonized voice and a strange defiant body language. She (almost) yelled back, “Why should I not when you did EXACTLY JUST THAT some few months ago by choosing to walk out of what we had?” How was his request even fair?

They had crossed the infamous seven-year itch. And this was year #8. Year eight is what the world doesn’t talk about, my friends. And I believe it has a good reason not to. It’s the year of the wound.  Atleast, that’s what I wanted to call it. And Vinay’s expectation of quick and easy forgiveness was rubbing some serious salt to my deep, deep, wounds.

It was a strange weekend, with an eerie silence in the house. There were voices in my head. My own, telling me multiple things. His, through the flashback of his bit in the conversations we’d had in the recent few days. And a third unfamiliar voice, whose shoulders were seducing me with the bandage to my wounds. The only decibel that did manage to grab some bit of my attention was of the sound of the glass bottle of “Signore” that bumped in an unstable manner, against the mezzanine floor of my-ours-his-oh God this sucks- my–our (through gritted teeth) bedroom, when I tried putting it down after gulping large sips of the red wine, in a rather un-classy manner. I was sitting on the floor, with my back resting against the cot, and my legs were in an inverted 'V' –position, bent at the knee.

I had never the need for this level of un-sophistication before, to drink wine straight out of a bottle. However, currently I had too many conflicts in my head to decide whether this boozy move at 11.30 a.m. on a Sunday was a good one or not.  I, for one, had never believed in alcohol to be a solution to anything, but there was nothing in my life today, other than wine to turn to, for some comfort.

27 minutes had passed and the effect of over 100 ml of the red in the little time elapsed was enhancing the decibel of that not-still-familiar third voice in my head. The air-conditioning of the room was far too mild, given the typical Mumbai heat outside, and the heaviness of my heart now combined with that of my head, led me to close my eyes. This voice was gradually attaching it to a ruggedly good-looking face which was mounted atop a lean and fairly chiseled body, topped by a small mop of more- pepper-less- salt mane. The expensive crisp white shirt had fallen like a dream on the chest I had never seen, although I was sure it was nothing less attractive than the chest of a 20-something- year- old European model gracing a fashion magazine cover. While these thoughts took firm shape and structure, the expensive Hugo Boss perfume from my memory began smelling more distinct than the smell of the wine that was right under my nostrils. The rugged blue denims and tan Italian moccasins sculpted the complete vision of him, the alleged “could -be -comfort –provider”.  

“No.” “ Yes.” “ No.”  “Yeah.”  “Maybe.” “ Ah these thoughts.” “These conflicts” . “How would he and I be any different then?”  “Ugh.Um.” “No way.” “It would be wrong.” “He is wrong too.” “Live for you.”  “Don’t take it far.”  “Stop being so foolish, it would never happen. Get a grip….” “Go for it.”  “Don’t ever drink in the mornings again. ” “Don’t be an alcoholic.”  “Live your justice through these few moments of uncontrolled fantasies. “ “Focus on the righ –“

“I think Kiara needs some help with her homework”, were the words that followed the knock on the door of the bedroom and whirred me back to the present day, breaking my steady chain of thoughts. He had probably knocked more than once; or maybe just once. (It was hard to tell because I was so consumed in my thoughts and quite tipsy) Or, he had forgotten his manners- just like he had forgotten his vows- to enter before I said he could. Wondering why I hadn’t locked the door from the inside, I looked up, and I could see how his eyes were transfixed on the almost–empty bottle in my hand. His jaw dropped, but he quickly regained his sadistic and shocked expression and ran towards my side and sat down beside me and was looking into my eyes that were probably bloodshot from the insomnia that was taking over my life or that would soon look bloodshot from the drinking. He tried yanking the bottle out of my hand and I nudged him aside. I pushed him away, angrily, with whatever strength I could muster in the little sobriety left in me. “Why?” was all that he could mutter and he immediately saw my fixated, disbelieving expression, one that he was seeing more often than not recently, and he was quick to realize that there was no answer to that tiny question “Why?”  We heard Kiara‘s voice approaching us from the background, so he quickly got up and locked the door from inside, reassuring her through the door, that “Baba would be with her in 10 mins”, and “that Mommy is busy” and locking the door from the inside, preventing her from coming into the room to prevent his daughter from seeing her mother in her drunken stupor.

Once again, he tried yanking the bottle out of my hands and this time I lost my grip and the bottle fell, though luckily without breaking. I let out a gasp, and looked at the bottle and then at him, and then came out of my mouth a slow, small moan – one that sounded like betrayal, failure and defeat combined. Tears welled up my eyes and they began trickling down my face. This is the first time I had broken down in front of him after his confession. He looked at me, lost and defeated. Like a man who had no pride left in him.