I open up my four by four cardboard box. It carries a life's worth of saving, a life's worth of memories and a life's worth of hurt.
"All this room needs now is a woman's touch". The Realtor told me delightfully when I first toured this half-torn down apartment.
A hoarder lived here before me. Granted the place is cleaned up for habitation, I cannot remove the scents, the signs and the sounds that stand witness to the existence of a troubled soul. The brick marks your presence, erect for centuries to come.
Perhaps, that is how it will be with our house. I can get him out of the building but, can I really bleach away his essence?
Bleach, right, the stinky bathroom needed bleaching.
I pin my nose with a fabric pin and begin cleaning. Cleansing away the filth from the hoarder, the rubbish the realtor could not remove, the pain I could not take away
Because all the room needed was a woman's touch.
Not one woman, more than one, cause he had taught me: one was never enough.
One was but a pretence, something to tell the world, "I am okay". One to fly with on public flights because the private jets are reserved for special occasions. I wonder why? One to take away to movie premiers because it is all in the image. I wonder if there is anything real beyond the imagery. Is anything true, is anything constant anymore?
He calls, should I pick up? No, stay strong.
What is strong?
Strong is not mixing ammonia and acid because that is what Mr. Shinde from Chemistry told me. Shit, shit, I should have paid attention in class.
I run outside to the porch and get some air. The weather is dry, Mumbai humidity not in sight. Global warming, I
assume. I am no scientist.
Oh, the vapours must be gone by now. I shall go in for an inspection.
"I am sorry", his text reads.
I know, I say out loud. But, that is all you are: sorry. Ashamed, regretful, pathetic, sore and sorry. Bitter, that is all I am. Devastated, insane, miserable, yours and bitter.
I pick up my body weight to get back to cleaning. I love him.
I will do anything to make it all go away. I scrub, rinse and wipe but, the acid leaves a mark. No, you go away now. There must not be a reminiscent to prove your existence. I want to get back together. Just go, okay?
I shift back forth, from Rishabh to the acid, acid to Rishabh. Is there is a difference? They are both corrosive.
It won't listen. Why would it? It's a mark, inanimate: without emotion. These walls will drive me insane.
I call the cleaning crew.
"Ha...hello, please come clean this mess. The address is..."
Is there a number I can dial to erase that night? A memory pill, a surgery, a brain wash session, anything?
My feet take me somewhere old and forgotten. Natraaj Studios: the place I grew up. My dance master by my side, I swung on the ceiling, stood my toes and danced for me. Not for the show stopper belly rubs, the naughty winks but for myself.
"Madhu", she says as if I am a disease with a surprise diagnosis. "Darling, how is RK?"
Ah, him?
Oblivious to me, that is for sure.
I opt for a more polite version of the answer. "He is fine. May I?"
I point toward the dance arena.
"Of course, anytime".
Does she really mean that? Her eyes say nothing with certainty but, her lips are perked like she has a story to tell.
"I heard you dropped out of RK's new film. Is everything okay?"
When did I make that decision?
Right, I didn't. He did. Like almost everything else, he chose what I can and cannot do.
I cannot possibly work with him now, he must have thought. And, he is right. But, where is my say in all of this?
"Master ji, I have plans to buy back my studio. I think my Bollywood phase is fading".
She smiles and sits me down. My head in her arms, she massages my temples like the mother I never had.
"You were always my dearest student. I cried a little when you gave up on your dream. I am very proud of you. Proud that you kept your love and your life. Rishabh may be your love but, dance is your life. Don't you ever forget that".
For the first time, in a long time, I remember why I breathed before he came in.
I was born to dance and I should never have given that up. It was my fault...all of it. My life was my responsibility and the ruins left of it, were mine to piece together.
Thank you master ji.
I am glad I came.
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