Till we meet again (Part 2) – The Arundhati Collections – 4

Till we meet again (Part 2) Loading

(Till we meet again (Part 2) is Contd from part 1)

Dearest,

It’s getting harder and harder. Everyday, every hour, every minute and second. It is getting harder to concentrate on anything. I start a work, only to leave it unfinished and begin another which I know I shall not complete. Even now, as I sit writing this, a part of me wants to throw the sheet of paper and pen across the room and run out screaming. Only, I don’t know where I’d run to. The scream never comes out. It stays locked inside, a wild thing. And it tears at me from within. And it seems as though the will, the want to do something, anything has left me.

The days are empty. The nights are listless. Most nights I don’t sleep. And on the ones when I do, the nightmares always follow. But what is worse is when I have a happy dream – one in which both of us are whole & well & together. For then, when I inevitably wake up from it, I automatically unconsciously turn to face you turning to your side of the bed. It still takes a while on such nights to remember why your side of the bed is empty. When I finally do remember, it becomes hard to breathe.

how can I begin to tell you what losing you has done to me? There is a wound so deep, it will never heal – a hole punched through my chest – an actual, physical pain. I bleed. t burns when I breathe. I cant feel anything anymore. I burn matchsticks and burn my fingers – not realizing it till somebody else screams. I cant hear. People call out my name three times, four times, before I look up. I don’t notice anything. Everything is mechanical. Like I am just a body – an empty, hollow being. And know what? It is better this way. This zombie state…this living death!

I don’t feel hungry anymore. I don’t cook now. But I still eat whatever I get simply because I have to. Mother comes over and looks at me like she is searching for something. I try to remain calm in front of her. She feeds me with her hands like I am a child of four again and the pain then shoots up to a peak and I cant rein myself in anymore and I cry in my mother’s arms and she cries with me.

-Tamara

Dearest,

The silence becomes too hard to bear at times. The house is empty without the sound of music. Sometimes my ears hear a familiar tune and my eyes begin to move towards that corner by the window where the instruments are kept before I realise that the song I am hearing belongs to my memories. How many evenings did we spend like that? You seating on that creaky wooden stool strumming your guitar! I would hear you playing and come sit on the window sill. I would find you lost in another world, your eyes half closed, and you would weave your spell around me. Sometimes, you would sing while you played. Sometimes I would sing while you played, sometimes we’d both sing. And sometimes, it would just be music. You’d pour it forth. your fingers dancing on the keys of the piano, gliding over the strings or slicing the air with the bow. I never  would take my eyes off you wile you were playing. And you were never surprised to find me sitting there when you opened your eyes at the end of the song.

The piano lessons you gave me. You would pull me down and guide my hands across the white and black keys while whispering instructions into my ear. I remember all the exercises and symphonies you taught me. I remember them all. But if you ask me to play them now, I wont be able to . Yesterday, I dragged myself into that corner. All the instruments were as you had left them. Only now, they were covered with dust. I had thought I would try to play some music. It was as much as I  could do to touch them. I did sit at the piano…I did put my fingers on the keys..but I couldn’t play anything.  sat there not moving my hands for fear that I would make a sounds. I am scared to play. I am scared. I wiped the dust off them and walked away.

Do you know how long each moment stretches in silence? Its been so long since I have sung a song. Its been so long since I wanted to. When I lost you, I lost my voice. I am not strong enough to play your music.

I long to hear your voice. I long for that music which lifts me up like the air beneath the eagle’s wings. The silence that I am drowning in is a constant aching reminder of your absence. Which is why I dread it. And which is also why I dread music because I know, when the music stops, the silence will follow. Do you know how long each moment becomes in the silence?

– Tamara

Everybody is worried because I don’t cry much. They don’t know…they don’t know…Mrs Travis died yesterday. It’s okay. “God gave her a long and full life”, they all said. A long and full life….a long and full life…as it too much to give it to you?

There are men who say that there is God and then there are men who say there is none. And then there are men who say that they don’t know…You never wanted to know, you never needed to know.

Mrs Travis would have hated her funeral. You were the one who always called her a spunky old lady. She left us something. A framed photograph of the three of us taken three Christmases ago.

I am sitting on the floor resting against her armchair. My head on her lap. You are behind the chair wearing the dark grey sweater she knit for you, and a smile that will put the devil and the sun to shame.

She had also written me a letter. She had been trying to stitch my wound and she made a last attempt at it.

When I saw her being buried I wanted to run up to her. Shake her and make her wake up. Walk away with me from that stupid pretentious funeral. I spent every heartbeat of the funeral wishing it was mine. Wishing it was I who had died.

The whole ride back I was wondering why I hadn’t done anything before. There seemed many choices – poison, a rope, a knife. That’s when I mindlessly opened the parcel she had left me and I saw your photograph and I read her letter. I knew for certain what I had already known – why I could not do it.

I could never do it to you. I would never want you to do something like that if you were in my place. But I still can not help but wish it had been me who had died…

This is what Mrs Travis Wrote.

Dear Tamara,

The two of you were so right together! Like two pieces of a jigsaw. You fit so well together. In the lull between many meetings and our conversations, I used to observe the two of you and how your eyes locked, your gazes held. How you unconsciously oriented yourselves like magnets around each other. How you leant forwards towards each other while debating and challenging.

I wonder if you realised how intensely and deeply in love the two of you were. People would do anything to love and be loved like that. You are lucky you got to feel it, Tamara.

You were both young, with your whole future spread out together and in a heartbeat, it was all snatched away from you and that too, because of someone else’s mistake. It is cruel. It is irreversible.

I am not going to tell you what all your friends have told you…move on, go out, meet people..I know you will tear up this letter if I do. I will say this Tamar, you were the single most important thing in his life, and he, the single most important one in yours! You loved a man who loved you back with all his heart…You had the joy of experiencing an emotion so special and a bond so deep…cherish it! Remember the times you spent together…good, bad, tender, funny…Laugh! Cry!

PS: I will tell Zack you say “Hi! Though it might be difficult considering that I am definitely going to hell and God probably is still trying to decide where to put him.”

Love and blessings

Diane Travis.

—–

Dearest,

I am trying to do just that. Live! Live with the memories …. Good, bad, tender, funny…And the lifetime of love you gave me. I shall cherish that special special bond….forever!

Till we meet again.

-Tamara

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Arundhati Foundation is a private, non-profit foundation started by Dr Shubhangi Sanjay Tambwekar and Mr Sanjay Achyut Tambwekar in the memory of their daughter Dr. Arundhati Sanjay Tambwekar who passed away in a gruesome road-traffic accident in Vellore on the morning of the 9th September 2014. Arundhati was on the way to CMC Vellore where she was Post Graduate Registrar pursuing her Diploma in Clinical Pathology. She was riding pillion wearing a helmet. Vellore roads are extremely bad and possibly this is the main factor which took away the life of a brilliant, talented, hard-working girl and a gem of a human being.

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