Random meows in my head (drabbles only) 8th up pg26 15/2/2022 - Page 13

Because I really, really wanted to get this out before the ME on Sunday and the anticipated Shivi reunion. And because the number of drafts I have lying around with just concepts barely etched out is pathetic.

Disclaimer: Extremely angsty, refers to serious abandonment, strongly implied character death.

To everyone who hates sad stories and wants to avoid reading this solely for that, know that I have a marham patti drabble I'll be putting up in a while. I just wanted to put this up first so that y'all flush out the sadness with the happy one and not the other way. 😆

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In another world

Raavi was standing at the stove, waiting for the oil she'd left on the stove to heat when it struck her. She was alone. So, so alone. It was the day after Diwali, and the family was still asleep, although she knew that the hunger would wake them all up in time for lunch.

But that wasn't what she was talking about. Every person she'd ever known had turned their backs on her at one point or the other, and although she had realised it, it was all hitting her right now. They had all walked away and not looked back. Or when they did think to look, they had seen the paper mask she had put on and not bothered to see past it.

And she felt something inside crack. Let go. Or try to.

A fist reached into her chest, through skin and flesh and bone. It took hold of her beating heart and it squeezed, so hard that it felt like her heart had stopped beating for a moment, but perhaps that was too easy a death for her? Too quick a death for someone who had struggled so much in life.

She broke out into a sweat, faint from what had already been a long day of work. And she felt the hand around her heart tighten it's hold bit by bit as she remembered each betrayal.

Her parents first, by leaving her alone in a world this ruthless.

Her Mausa Pa, for having married her off and not asking her how she was after it. For having abandoned her to this pack of hyenas, working together, but always willing to betray their brethren.

Her Maasi Ma, the one woman she had bared her heart to. Who had seen her and known her, but had not been able to do what was right for her. For having placed revenge above her namesake daughter on her list of priorities.

Her Di, Anita, for not moving on, and for using her as just another pawn on the way to her king. A pawn in a battle already lost.

The dizziness forced her to hold onto the counter now, to settle down on the floor lest she fall, and she curled into a ball in an attempt to keep atleast the world around her steady. She thought of the family she had wanted to belong to for as long as she could remember, and she felt nauseous, acid and bile rising up in her.

Her mother in law, her Kaki, for having her walk on hot coals with the taunts she had to hear everyday. For having placed the fault of her sons on her head, and for having no remorse about it.

Her other Di, Dhara di, for having let her steam away in confusion and pain instead of trying to understand. For having let her carry the burden of two hearts.

Her Gaumbi, for he was as much her Gaumbi as he was his brothers, for having chosen his brother over her. For showing her that family came first, and that she was not family. For not realising this. For believing that force could work where gentle hands were needed.

Her best friend, her childhood love, Dev, for not having known her well enough to understand her childish love for him. For having taken her feelings lightly, and for not having the guts to see his heart and then speak it.

Her jethani, Rishita, for having not walked into a ritual at her wedding a day earlier. For having misplaced anger and jealousy and hurt, and for seeing her as an easy target.

Her eklauta devar, Krish, for his childish insensitivity, and his inability to spill the right secrets.

She smelt smoke somewhere, and she heard someone shouting. Him, it was his voice. Coming closer, frantic shouting.

Her Shiva. Her childhood frenemy. Her junoon and her shiddat. Her love. Her husband.

Another person who had turned his back on her. But the only one to turn back around every time and to see her for what she was. A girl barely holding on to the threads of sanity, to the threads of life. And he had held on tighter and tighter, making sure she wasn't lost.

She felt him lift her up into his lap, his rough palms running over her arms, her face, trying to rouse her from her pain. It was too much now, the fist around her hand had become steel bands and she wanted to let go.

She was alone. So, so alone. Except for him.

He still held onto her, onto the fraying bond of their thread, and she keened in pain as he rocked her to and fro, his frantic attempts to soothe her only wishing she could have a more permanent peace. Wishing he would let go. Perhaps they were never meant to survive in this world, she thought as she felt herself lose the energy to cry and scream and think.

She lay there in his arms as the world faded to black slowly. And then she felt him go still, his heart stopping for a moment, a silent tear landing on her cheek, telling her to

go, go, go.....

And she let go too.

xxxxx

Years later, in the town of Somnath, a city rife with stories, a new story had joined the list. Of two lovers. Of two people with a bond beyond love or hatred or friendship. They had lived in the abandoned house on the street the Shiva temple with the good laddus for prasad was on.

They talked of a girl, bright and young, who had brought joy everywhere she went, no matter the pain the world put her through. But she had burnt too bright to burn too long they said, pity and a wistful look in their eyes at the thought of her bright smile.

And they talked of a boy in haunted whispers. Of his hatred for the girl, or was it love? Of how he had let her go because she had wanted to, and then had held her body, for it no longer had her soul in it, and screamed and screamed and screamed. Of the hell he had raised when his family had pulled him away from her and the fire the switched on stove had resulted in in the kitchen. True to his name, they said. People think Lord Shiva performs the tandav in anger. But no, he performs it in pain, in the helpless, empty rage losing his very heart leaves him in. True to his name.

They had saved his life, but not her body. Not that last sign of the girl who had held his soul in her little hands for as long as he'd known. He had been empty after that. He had not moved unless for primal human need, had turned away from food and drink, had not spoken a word, to his family or her family or the vendors selling their wares on the street. And then one day they had woken up and he was gone. He had managed to find the other end of the broken bridge of his soul, his tether to her, and he had followed it into another world.

The family had fallen apart and moved away. They still visited once a year, on the day the girl had let go, on the day they had lost their son. To pray for the peace of their children's souls, people said.

But every child in the gali knew, the story wasn't over yet. Perhaps this world simply wasn't for them.

xxxxx

In another world, another Shiva and another Raavi lay on the floor of a kitchen that looked quite a bit similar to a house in a story. An abandoned house. And a story of a broken bond. But brighter, light reaching the corners better, a light breeze flowing through an open window, blowing with it some of the flour they were covered in.

The boy got up quickly and dusted himself off. And then held his hand out to the girl. And when she held onto it and tried to get up but pulled him back down instead, they lay there in each others arms, her bright giggles making him laugh as well. He tightened his arms around her as she tried to move slightly away, and reminded her in whispers of their marriage in a week. And as she blushed and smiled a shy smile at him, the boy felt something in him heal. Frayed ends to a thread he had not known had ever broken.

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