Dear Ahaliya,

                        Three times the earth has turned since I saw you last yet my world seems to have turned many more in the last day. The rain here is unrelenting and the wind tucked away somewhere far seems to be mourning my loss. It was only days ago that at Arahim Manor I shared a cup of steaming Darjeeling tea with you. Cozy in the warmth of your love and companionship, I dreamt of my future with the luxury of someone who is not constrained by the present. Now I have thrown it all away in a moment of fury, a lifetime of paths and memories to be replaced with inconsolable grief. 

It is in the nature of love to diminish but never to scorn as it is in the nature of time to fade but never to succumb. Vikram did not understand what I meant to him and how much more he meant to me. I suppose it is all really my fault, I made him to be the man he never wanted to be. Years I watched him retreat into his own gallows, painfully he took each step and yet, there was a sense of content that he carried with him. In a strange, twisted way I think he wanted me to do this to him. If I close my eyes, I can distinctly still hear the melody that he used to hum when he had a moment or two to himself. His appa had sung it every day he stepped out of the house to leave for work and Vikram told me this melody had just become a habit. I knew that it was not out of habit that he hummed. Vikram, stooped over his book in the study, would hum to remember his past and to keep it seared in his memory. I had married a man who enjoyed melancholy as one would a delicious piece of expensive chocolate. Everyone who knew Vikram thought that he wore his melancholy and sorrow as an armor. When I met him, he had few friends and even fewer lovers. He was smart yet quiet, a cynic and ruthlessly truthful. I had asked him to dance at Akriti’s wedding and I remember being surprised when he said yes. He dances very well! 

Remember when we met at old uncle Dorbji’s house for some wine and song? You and Saud crafted those clever cocktails that left all of us very tipsy and soon enough, the evening had become eventful. Vikram and I danced till the daylight broke and oh how I was mesmerized, Ahaliya. Vikram had neither been pretentious nor facetious, and to watch him lost in a song and jumble of steps was captivating. Maybe, in that foolish moment if I had silenced my heart’s flutters and looked away, I wouldn’t have had to hold his cold, lifeless body in my hands. If I had left early that night and hadn’t recklessly kissed him at the doorstep, maybe he would still have been dancing somewhere else. Am I doomed to blame this on fate? 

We used to laugh about fate during those silly times it came up. Vikram with his boyish grin, would pipe in about how ‘we are all but actors in this tragedy of life’ and then looked away as if he was scared to show how he had been playing his tragedy. We had rented out a small room in a homely brick and stone hotel while travelling through Scotland. That night, next to the crackling fire, I held his hand as we sobbed uncontrollably when he shared his truth of the melody, his past and the great price he had to pay. A sickle he had taken to his violent father’s neck and in a moment, he had entered his great tragedy. 

I did not dread that I did not know the man I married. I knew him more now and I was determined to continue holding his hand through all his truths. Looking back Ahaliya, I realize that I was so focused on Vikram’s desolation that I forgot to tend to the low growls of my own. As it is with any impending disaster, the ominous signs go unnoticed and unchallenged. I was just tired I think and more so, tired of the truth. How was I stupid enough to do this to the man I love? 

I hope you do not read this letter as my attempt to ask for forgiveness or my confession of love to appease my guilt. I have known you for many years and I know you have nothing but contempt in your heart for me now. I want you remember me for what I was and not as a painful memory. Please don’t let me be the tragedy of your life. 

Love,

Aradhana 

Stamped: Pukhal Central Prison