OS: Khamoshi

Note: Admittedly unedited, a random piece that I wrote out of inspiration from Navin Di's thread. I hope you enjoy it!

He shifted in the bed, wincing as it creaked uncertainly. The splitting headache he had was only being made worse by the groans of the bed beneath him, eluding him of sleep.

His arm felt light. Too light. He stretched his fingers, the loud pop echoing in the silent room. His hand was empty, the gaping spaces between his roughened fingers seemingly wider this long, sleepless night.

He rolled over, sprawling himself out across the wide bed, desperately hoping for a wink of sleep. He squeezed his eyes shut and reached over with his other hand, slipping his own fingers into the gaping holes in a sorry attempt to fill them in.

It didn't work.

Where were those rats when he needed them?

Their squeaks would have at least broken the ominous tension in the room, calmed his frazzled, uncomfortable nerves. He would have a reason to get up, rush around the room in anger as he searched for them, threatening to squelch every last squeak from underneath their beady noses.

He wouldn't kill them.

He couldn't.

Not when he was haunted by that voice, the soft tones echoing endlessly in his head, the vehement request to leave those damned mice alive.

He glanced over at the watch resting on his bedside, willing the slow hands to move faster.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He counted the seconds in his head, his dark, fitful eyes trained on the hand as it moved steadily around in a circle.

Five more seconds, he thought. Five more seconds and he could get up.

The clock finally struck 4, and he jumped out of bed as if he had been burned.

He reached into the dark closet, feeling emptiness brush over his hands. It was only half full, with his kurtas and shirts swaying all alone in the depths. The only color came from the three shirts he had shoved in the back, the green, red and blue calling out to him tauntingly.

He couldn't wear any of those again.

Not without thinking of her.

His hands finally closed over the stale BSD uniform, the three stars on the shoulders glittering in the dim light of the early morning. He wrinkled his nose up at the smell, the overpowering stench of musk and sweat permeating into the air.

He couldn't bring himself to use the slightly lemony scented soap she used to wash his BSD uniform, the special soap that made the cloth a little softer. The scent tormented him the one time he had decided to use it, serving as a constant reminder of his foolishness.

Foolish.

That was what his father had called him when he had learned of what happened, telling him he was an idiot for letting her go. Because this time, it was his fault, whether or not he accepted it.

He had felt blinding rage when she had left, called her a wh**e like his mother. But he knew that wasn't true. His father had calmly pointed out that he had been the one to tell her to get out, to leave him forever.

Of course, the one thing he never meant for her to obey was the one thing she always obeyed.

He slipped into his chair at work, reaching for the bottle of liquor that he kept in the bottom most drawer of his desk. He was exhausted, having been on a mission all morning. He had thrown himself into work with a passion, leaving early and returning late.

It kept his mind off of her.

They were back at headquarters for lunch. He downed the liquor in one shot, wiping the foam off with the back of his hand. He tossed the burnt roti into the trash, the bitterness of the karela subji from last night staining his tongue.

His hands twitched towards the phone, eyeing it with wariness and shuttered hope.

She had always called, every single day. Her voice would come across the phone, softly reminding him to take his medicine. He wouldn't want to be out of work again, would he, she would admonish gently.

He would snap at her, angrily growling that he was a grown man who did not need babying. He could almost hear her smile through the phone as she placed it down with a last reminder, entreating him to take it.

The full bottle rested on his desk. He hadn't touched it in a week.

He picked up the phone, the dial tone ringing in his ears. He sat there, listening to the silence on the other end, somehow hoping that her voice would float through.

It never did.

He was left with the monotone, harsh sound ringing in his ears as a reminder of his folly.

He trudged into the haveli, pulling off his boots with more anger than strictly necessary. His voice automatically called her name, the rounded "o" echoing in the haunting, empty hallways.

He swallowed thickly, looking towards the pillar, his ears eagerly perked for the sound of the tinkling of payals.

He sighed, knowing it wouldn't come.

The silence was deafening, perhaps louder than any sound would have been.

He missed the tinkling payals, the gentle reminders, the clattering dishes, and his name on her tongue.

He missed her.

His eyes widened in realization, and he bent down to slip on his boots, grabbing the leather jacket hastily as he rushed out towards the motorcycle.

The sputtering of his shiny motorcycle broke the khamoshi of the cool Rajasthani night.

It would be silent no longer.