Watercolour: Susmita Bhattacharya
Mariella stared at the crashing breakers. The sea
was grey, dark clouds loomed low, threatening to swallow the earth. Fishing
boats bobbed carelessly in the distance. Why were they even out there, she
wondered. But she knew why. They needed to provide food on the table, the
weather was irrelevant to them.
Hugging her shawl closer to her, Mariella trudged
back to her cottage. Smells of frying fish and toddy accosted her hungry mind
even as she tried to ignore the pleas. There was a flurry of activity along the
shore. Christmas bunting hung on the eaves of cafes and restaurants lining the
beach. Fairy lights circled the palm trees. People dressed in bright colours,
laughed and greeted one another as they made their way to church. Mariella looked
away. She didn’t want to see the joy in those faces. The celebrations. The
prayers. She wanted none of that. All she wanted was a glass of whiskey, ice
tinkling, warming up her soul, numbing her mind.
She was here to punish herself. It could have been
one of merriment if she had listened. But of course, she had got her way and
now it was for her to repent forever. She thought of her family back home. The
thick warm air inside her mother’s house. The smell of mince pies and turkey.
Big soft cushions to sink into while listening to Christmas carols. The tree blinking
constantly in your face. Cheeks hurting from keeping the smile intact. Fingers aching
from all the wrapping of parcels. Bank balance depleted. But still, a hope for
a better new year.
There wasn’t a new year for him. It ended a day
after Christmas. It angered her that he left her; there was so much to be said
and done. Like their wedding. The honeymoon to Goa. The children to come after
that. Their growing old together. He didn’t keep his side of the bargain, made
a hasty exit. And she made her way to the other side of the world, this
Christmas, for him. Wasn’t he always inside her soul? Isn’t that why she always
poured that second glass before she realised. But she couldn’t throw it away.
It would stay on the table, resolute and demanding. Its honey eyes scorching
into her, until she reached out to gulp its contents and slam the glass down.
The church bells were ringing outside. The wind
whistled through the window and she hoped the fisherman would be home soon.
Safe, surrounded by the warmth of goodwill and toddy. Her legs wanted her to
walk out into the open, go to the church, and celebrate with the worshippers.
But her mind screeched in revolt. Celebrate what? A loss of life, two lives,
for where did she stand now? She sank deeper into the cane chair, momentarily
missing her mother’s soft cushions, their banter, their company.
A voice came through the darkness. A child singing.
So sweet, so pure. A hymn that floated easily on the currents of the wind, far
into the sea. Towards the fisherman fighting against the waves, the voice
pulled them, safely towards the shore.
Nice!
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