A BREEZE OF LACED THOUGHTS...

CONSUME TO BE CONSUMED?

-this is the story of one man’s carelessness, and hence, lifelong guilt. Forget the saying 'rules are meant to be broken'. Some are meant to be heeded-

As the hand grew limp in mine, I fought back a tear. Despair hit me hard. For fear of breaking down, I did not even look up. I clutched the hand tightly and shut my eyes so hard that it hurt my brows. I did not feel like leaving the hand, which had once throbbed with life. I held on with both my hands. I could not bear the crying which erupted around me, as soon as they too realized the loss. I did not really encourage myself crying in public, even though I sometimes told myself that it was only a manner of expressing human emotion and there was nothing wrong with it. But, I did not encourage kissing in public too.
I fixed my gaze at the ring on the finger in his hand and I remembered the day he got it. He was a very happy man that day. Memories of that wonderful day came back to me – the long aisle, people seated on either side, his nervous face, the beautiful girl standing at the end of the aisle. His shy smile, which had won a million hearts, was even more evident that day when she put the ring on his finger. I remember clearly, he looked up and I gave him a reassuring smile. Yes, I was very happy for him, and so were all those people around him.
I looked up slowly and my eyes found the woman who brought him into this world. She was looking lost but there were no tears. Sometimes, when you endure the greatest pain, it is said that you forget even how to cry. I sensed no life left in her.

Not being able to bear the sight anymore, I looked away towards a group of aged men with teary eyes talking in hushed voices amongst each other. Some words like ‘arrangements’ were carried through the air. Some younger men and women came into the room, and took long looks at him. None spoke. Some of the women covered their faces while the men folded their hands up front. The despair was spreading around, I could see. And still, I was successful in keeping back those tears.
Suddenly, there was some hassle outside and a few people rushed out. There seemed to be a lady screaming and a lot of others trying to pacify her. I couldn’t make out who it was, though I should’ve guessed. She stumbled into the room supported by another woman who looked a lot like her and older too. My God! It was no longer the beautiful lady that I remembered, the same one who stood at the end of the aisle. She was red eyed, all puffed up; shaking feverishly; hair all messed up; dress in shambles. The ring he’d given her still gleamed from her ring finger. She looked at me as if I was a cheat, as if I was a thief who had stolen something from her. I melted away right there. The tears that might have formed in my eyes dried away with her scorching, tearing look.

I hadn’t expected anything less. In what other way would a wife look at you, when you’ve taken her husband away from her? You had just stolen the very pinnacle of her life, the very reason she smiled, the very reason she lived. It was ironic that the reason was made possible by none other than yours truly.
Yes, I had been the instrument in kindling their relationship, which once began as any other college romance would have. I saw it go through all the phases any relationship would’ve, and I made sure they saw it right through to the end. I was the one they used to exchange their first letter, their first words over the phone (his died out on him right at the key moment), and even their first kiss (don’t get me wrong here; they used me only as cover!). I was there by their sides when they broke the news nervously to their parents. I was there to pacify her frantic dad, who thought it was an undeniable act of crime if she married a guy from another religion. I was there to drill sense to his mom, who had the job of both parents from his very young age. I was there to coerce confidence into him when he realized what a big step marriage was. I was there when he was frenetically walking outside the labor room, the day he became a father.
And now here I was, having torn their life apart, doing nothing, not even shedding a few tears. She had every reason to bore her eyes into me. It was only natural that she forgot my role in making their life, because I was the only reason she had no more of it left.
Yes, I am to blame, and solely too, except if you consider it worthwhile blaming the few drinks I had before the drive. But that would be bestowing too much of kindness on me.

And I was sure I did not deserve it. I, the more responsible of the two should not have fought to drive the vehicle after getting drunk, just hours after he saw his cute little one enter the world. My God, what had I done? I lost the child’s father too, my god child’s. She had promised me that I would be godfather to their child. And now, what am I?
I looked into her eyes once more, and it was almost as if she was asking me to let go of the hand, that I still clutched onto. It was clear, that according to her I had no right to touch him, no right to even be present in this room.

But I could not bear the thought of letting go of that hand, the same one which had held mine on my first day at school, the same one that slapped me when I bit him in the 4th grade, the same hand that held onto my bleeding wound when I hit my head on the goal post, the same hand that took off the cigarette from my mouth when I tried smoking, the same which patted me on my back when I finally went on stage for the first time, the same hand with which I high-fived when I finally graduated, the same which shook mine with pride when I got my job. Yes, he had done much more for me in life than I had ever imagined of doing for him.
I was the one who took his breath away, first with my antics as a bad dancer, but now with my careless, brash, irresponsible driving under influence. How can I ever, ever forgive myself? Or is there no forgiveness for certain crimes. I chose to believe in the second, mainly because I myself was not prepared to forgive myself for this offense.

I hoped I had the courage and strength to get up, and walk up to her, his wife, and now widow, and tell her how sorry I was. But no, I was weak; weakened not only by my bad driving and subsequent loss, but also by her strong stare, the one that spoke so many words of hatred, loathing and detestation. Yes, she was still staring at me with those red eyes, not crying anymore. I sensed it was time for me to leave, not only this room, but also their lives. I was clearly unwelcome here. The others were too weak to show it, but she did; one of those things that attracted him to her – her mental strength.
I let go of the limp, lifeless hand, and slowly got up from the chair beside the bed. I was feeling a slight pain in my side, and my pants were torn n stained with blood. But that’s how far my injury list goes. I ambled my way to the door, bracing myself for a word she would say. But she did not. She did not even look at me anymore. I did not even deserve a look from her. I knew that.

I made my way to the end of the corridor, where it was dark and had an empty bench. I laid down on it, and closed my eyes, praying with all my might to the Lord, to take my worthless life, and give his back to him. I prayed a futile prayer, but at least now I was able to cry. All those tears, pain, guilt, let flow by itself. I wept, and wept like a kid. Someone once said, ‘when age catches up to you, you go back to being what you were when you were little’. All I could do now was weep, and hope that time would cleanse my wounds, both inside and outside my body.
I don’t know for how long I cried, and I think I might have even dozed off while I was at it. But when my senses returned, I was tired and teary eyed. The guilt was still there, and I was sure it would be till I breathed my last, but the main thing in my head then was, ironically, an old JAM topic from his and my college days which goes something like ‘don’t drink and drive, smoke weed and fly.’