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Short Story – Pradipta Dey

Afreen

The house by the end of the street had been in the same place, had withstood one too many storms and yet stood still, battered, but firm, with broken windows and creaking doors in a few places, the white colour of the house now a dirty grey and one, slightly bent Robert Shilling. A 75-year old Robert Shilling was not like any other man of his age. He was quiet, a bit too quiet, would come out every morning and evening to sit in an almost three-legged Windsor chair leaned onto the wall of the balcony for support. His eyes would move around the shadows walking on the street below, as the dusk set in, some carrying their evening paper under their arm walking back home, some pacing rapidly back with a bag of groceries, salvation for the day. A few howls and pearls of laughter from the distant group of children kicking the ball around a few times, rang the evening’s blue sky. This dreary quotidian was unfailing, a regularity that had spread over through Robert’s life over the past 25 years since his only son had moved to the city for work. Noah Farooq had kept his mother’s name. And work was to him, his only solace. Yet, he would traipse back Willow Street, supposedly, every Saturday evening to see Robert, catch a bus back to the city the next day. And on days that Noah could not, he would let his father know that he was not coming, which happened a bit too often. Robert did not express much concern over it. He would let it be. He was not soft spoken, neither was he sensitive. All that had stopped coming to him after Afreen had died. Noah had left the house after a week after his mother’s passing, Robert had tried to convince him otherwise but grief knows no mercy.

“Please Noah, please. Stay. We can talk this out, right?”, the soft voice of Robert echoed through the attic.

“No.”

“Your whole life has been here. Why can’t you?”

“I can’t. My work can’t remain idle, you know?”

“Afreen­­—”

“Afreen’s dead. Do not take her name.”, said Noah, and had turned around to reach for the doorknob.

“Please, Noah…”, Robert’s voice was dry, softer than usual.

“NO, Father”, a firm voice cut through the attic of the house where all of Afreen’s belongings were kept.

Suddenly, Robert’s hand reached out to hold his son’s wrist, with the intention to pull him back softly, to yearn him, not to go out through that door, to want him to know that he needed his son’s head buried in his chest, his arms around the tired back of his father.

“Afreen would have wanted you to—”,his words were cut short. Noah pushed his father, an impulse that lasted for about a second.

“DO NOT TAKE MY MOTHER’S NAME.”

And Robert fell on the floor with a thud, as a soft moan of agony escaped from his chapped lips, a moan that ended the memory of his son’s birth, his son’s childhood and Afreen’s touch.
Noah stumbled back. What had he done? A swirling gut of guilt overcame him. He stuttered.

“I’m sorry…. I didn’t mean to—”, replied Noah as he fumbled for words.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”, a small albeit hard voice flew up to Noah’s ears from the floor. A voice Noah didn’t recognise. Robert pressed his hands firmly on the floor, exhaled and heaved himself up, flicked the dust particles off his shirt. And said to Noah, “You can go. I understand.” It was the same small, calm and hard voice again. Noah’s eyes didn’t leave the floor, and his hands were stuck inside his pockets, as if he was hiding some murder weapon. His feet shuffled as he went down the stairs of the attic, crossed the very room where he drew his first painting and picked up his belongings. The head turned over the shoulders, the eyes swept the house once and Noah stepped out the door to catch the next bus to the city.

All that, was 15 years ago.

Robert stood in the attic, in the very same place where he let out all his memories of his life. Would he ever get them back? Would he ever be able to come out of that relentless spiral that seemed to be sucking him into this vortex of gurgling dark oblivion? Would he able to say the name of his late wife? Of his light that he so very solemnly lost the grasp of, with one shove of himself? Yes, himself. He saw himself in Noah. Would he be able to say Afreen’s name ever again?

He stood in the dust, that seemed to swirl in the bleak light of day coming into the attic from the window. The one window which did not break. There lay a box, rather a trunk of everything, everything that this house ever was, his home ever was, just 10 feet away from him, tucked away in the corner, untouched. Robert wasn’t a frequent visitor of his attic. In fact, he wasn’t a visitor, after that day. But yet, now, he had to. He was moving out of the house at the end of the street. His son was leaving the country for work. And would probably not return for a long time. For a long time. Noah was thus, taking him to an old age home and community centre where he would be looked after. And so, the attic was hosting its first visitor in 15 years.

The lock on the trunk had fallen prey to the decay of midwinter. Robert stared at the trunk for a full whole minute. Something inside him was creeping upwards. He took two steps, and picked up the key left beside the trunk on the ground, and pushed it in the hole, and turned the lock clockwise. A loud clang signified the trunk had been unlocked. Something, something deep inside was creeping further upwards Robert? What was it? Was he finally going insane? Was he going to heave his last breath? Or was there something in the air making him sick? Robert gulped back a lump that was forming in his throat. With that, he pushed open the trunk, and the smell of pungent moth balls filled his nostrils. His eyes found the first item in the trunk.  It was a trophy. A trophy Noah had won in his first spelling bee. He had come first in amongst 50 other participants.  Robert’s hands were shaking. The lump in his throat was coming back. One finger ran over the now decoloured trophy. He kept the trophy aside. His eyes fell on a few more items. His keys to the motorcycle, the one in which he first rode his son to school, the one in which Afreen had asked him to take her to the beach in outskirts of the village, on the 15th of March, 1992. His eyes passed over to the book – J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.  Afreen’s favourite book. Robert’s eyes were getting moist. A lifetime, a lifetime of resonance of the very oblivion that he thought he now lived in was basking in the dust-ridden attic. He scanned around the trunk, things he wanted to take with him, when it suddenly stuck on an envelope. The paper was yellow, and reeked of death. Death. Robert picked up the envelope, where his name was now written in cursive, ‘Dear Robert’. Afreen’s handwriting. Robert found he wasn’t being able to speak anymore. He carefully opened the letter as if a single rough touch would hurt it beyond repair.

“Dear Robert,

Funny, how we just find things. Funny, how even in all of the life I have lived, I have never been able to forget you.  Thank you for the ride today to the beach. I won’t be able to forget it, ever. Just like you. Love, if anyone ever tells you, you’re lost, let me tell you, you have never been more you than you can be. You’re my light, and I will be yours, even after I’m gone. Not that I’m going anywhere. You will never be lost. You have me. I love you.

Yours,
Afreen.

15. 03. 1992.”

Robert slumped down on the floor to his knees. And that thing which was fighting so relentlessly, vigorously and undyingly inside him, finally broke free.

Afreen.
Afreen.
Afreen.

The words were formed three times in his mouth and came out as a whisper as Robert quietly wept. He wept, as every memory he had ever lost, came back again. His thin chest heaved up and down and shook with the everglowing resolve of his brain to not back down.

Afreen.

The house looked less empty today. Less empty than the rest of the days. It was Saturday. His son would be coming any moment now to take him away. Robert sat overlooking the street with the one lamp post — Willow Street. He wrapped the shawl around himself more closely, so as to not expose himself to the chilly winds of November. He was smiling. Something that had never happened in these all these 15 years.He breathed in the air, strongly, as if to not let life go away more from his grasp again. And the air that came out of his nostrils repeateda whisper again. The same whisper.
Afreen.
Afreen.
Afreen.
The weak yellow light of the lamp reached the corner, just throwing itself up until the dilapidated gates of Robert Shilling’s house at the end of the street. And the shadows of the rods latched onto the gates, fell onto the black road with a haunting but comfortable silence.

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