Bandhan Park had been there on Furlow Street for the last sixty years. With two entrances at the front and a small one at the back, it saw a throng of people ranging from kindergartens to octogenarians day in and day out.

Ever since marriage, it had become my go-to, apart from the one in our locality, of course.

If I was happy, you'd find me at Bandhan Park, if I was miserable you'd find me at Bandhan Park and if I was beyond frustrated you'd find me at Bandhan Park; the latter, unfortunately, happened to be the case today.

As I jetted past waddling toddlers and hobbling elders, a thousand questions swarmed within my mind.

There's something with him, it seemed almost abnormal. Didn't it?

How many women are there? A single one or does he bang them in hordes?

The more I procrastinated, the faster I spurted with a full stretch of limbs, breath fighting near my mouth- gushing like a stream. Hah..hah..hah.
Adrenaline pumped its way through, a sense of exhilaration rode over the tide of anxiety that was slowly building up.

Wiggling branches scurried into the distance, the ground hazed as I evaded small pebbles, dodging middle-aged women lazing by- their protruding rears twitching with awkward movements. My figure zoomed beyond the usual buzz of people, crushing small insects that came out of their holes to have a glimpse of the fiery morning sun. Focussing on that single banyan tree at the far end, towards the periphery where I usually rested, I sprinted quicker, all the while anticipating the relief of its cool shade.

The only thing that stood between me and my meagre chance at peace was Siddhartha and the enigma that he was.

A fat layer of sweat had now settled on the nape of my neck, hot air bit into my lungs. But, the quizzing continued, bugging without a break.

Would this new plan hatch results? It had to, there wasn't another way.

Am I being too invasive?

No, definitely not. Remember the blows you incurred, he's cheating.

Yes! It aches and bleeds.

Hah..hah...hah..The wind had picked up speed, my calves burnt and eyes watered; the tears swished astride. I wasn't crying! I wouldn't, ever; it was just the piercing air. Don't twist the truth!

A few more leaps and I would make it-my brain deserved a repose. The raised bed around the tree luckily was empty. On the opposite end, a grandpa perused newspapers.

Oh no, two males were pacing towards the seat in sweatpants- a mighty grin on their faces. Merry or not, babbling was the last thing I wished to encounter. So much had happened since yesterday, what I witnessed reeled me to the very core.

So, I took a turn, encircling the over-ecstatic man-children. They were cracking jokes on some marital shit and spoke in animated gestures. Skipping past, I flopped on a secluded seat around the corner. The wrought iron bench rattled under pressure, its rusty edges thin and sharp. The idiots- a little younger than Siddhartha, eyed me with amusement, wondering if they were that much a plague to be avoided.

Yes, men are- I rolled my eyes.

Atop crows cawed. The awful din multiplied by a row of sharp whistles from the adjoining football field worked up a deafening cacophony. The noise buzzed, within my head they rioted; any chance of calmness faded into discord.

I closed my eyes, attempted to space out.

This wasn't the time to be jittery. If anything, nerves make your genius suffer; a clean mind and proper rationale help channelize one's approach.

Minutes passed in silent contemplation. Yet, I sat; allowed nature to take control. Slowly, things vapoured out: the adjacent buildings, the trainer's voice, the birds' chitter-chatter, the loud giggles. I perceived— them distancing from the mind's eye, paling into oblivion until quietness descended, until the surroundings melted into absolute composure, until I drifted into a state of equanimity.

Last night went in pure torment, twisting and turning and then lying still until the wee hours of the morning. Siddhartha smoked a couple of cigarettes, the odour prying on our bed and smothering me in sleep, rather the act of it.

After that dubious doze of intimate talk, we had switched back to our pretentious selves. These days I often wondered which was the real me, if, at all it existed. It was as if the old me was sinking deep, getting lost in the dark waters of an abyss. I was seldom in charge of my emotions and had no idea of their boundaries; the range bounced anywhere between a scared cat to a snarling tiger.

Late into the night, Siddhartha had come and slumped on the bed, his back turned towards me. Within minutes, soft snores resonated within the room. But, I knew better.

Half an hour lingered like eons, after almost forty minutes there was a careful shift in posture, the mattress fluffed followed by muted footsteps. Had it not been my sharp perception, the sound would be almost indiscernible. His shadow loomed in large, probing every rise and fall of my chest. I shut my lids tight, trying to appear as relaxed as possible. A mosquito hummed overhead, buzzing around my face before settling firmly on the bulge of my cheeks.

Dammit!

But, Siddhartha's fingers came to the rescue. They hovered over my eyes, waving intentionally; curious to detect even the minutest movement. Satisfied with the experiment, he tiptoed out of the room- gait as stealthy as a thief's.

My eyes sprang open and I scampered down the stairs. The hunch of something disgusting and utterly unpleasant settled heavily on my system yet, adrenaline pumped high. My legs trudged- one at a time, vigilant and wary of the dark. Instinct pushed me towards some random destination, past Mamoni's partially open door.

For a split second, I peeked inside. The area was bereft of a soul except for her sleeping body. "When my wife isn't the least concerned, I am the only one left to look after my mother." How much he had cornered me just days back. Hurling accusation is easy because you aren't at the receiving end of it. But, it was time- time for the curtains to rise.

Black on black is seldom good, almost never and the dark polish of furniture fading into the gloom of the night made moving an uphill struggle. In Swarupnagar, I could walk with eyes closed, each corner etched into my memory but, here every day was an exploration- something new, something shocking, especially when one had a presumptuous mother-in-law on the prowl.

Thump!

Ouch! My knee uttered a silent cry as it smacked against an oak table. The darkness had deepened into an ominous tenebrosity, while a dim glow from a distant wall fixture frailed in comparison. The marble underneath was hard and as my soft soles padded across, drawing closer to the guest room at the very rear, I felt a rumble in my heart. It thudded against the chest with the might of an elephant, kicking in frantic beats. The persistent roar of air-conditioners speared through the silence while frequent flashes from strong headlights conjured frightening images on the ground.

Khoff..Khoff..khoff!

I stilled.

Khoff..khoff! This time the sound neared. Mamoni was up, definitely up and if I as much afforded to be keener, I could calculate the distance..

Khoff..khoff..

Yes, it was her bout of seasonal coughs and they were creeping right up. I cupped my hands over my mouth and staggered away, towards deeper darkness. Seconds passed trailed by scuffling and before I could provision a hideout, Mamoni stood right around the corner, leaning against the door, yawning.

She mumbled some nonsense and limped towards the switchboard. I stood- careful, and on guarded feet walled towards an antique cabinet- the only option, lying a foot across. For every inch covered, I shifted from Mamoni until my back pressed firm and square against the rich hue of the cabinet doors.

Whish!

A truck swished by, its glaring headlamp projected a monstrous silhouette of hers against the wall and partially on the floor- long, droopy with unkempt curls. For an instant, I froze, squinting to shield my face, as if it would prevent my body from being seen.

But, monster-in-law's diminishing vision triumphed in the end. She cursed at the wheezing cars, stepped out of her fluffy bedtime sandals and shuffled to the edge of the door, rummaging through the collection of tribal wall arts for a feel of the lighting panel.

My hands stretched to scavenge the back of the cabinet. If I knew this section correct, there would be a minuscule space between its rear and the wall, just a teeny bit to somehow squeeze my body in. Petite, I might be, but, the hideous act of sheltering would come at the cost of my bones crushed fine.

But, whatever I would, had to be done fast. By now, her finger rested inches away from the switch and the next second could determine my fate- whether I would get what I was after or the rest of the night would pass in rigorous question answers.

That was it, the distance was closing in. One..two..three..and..

Flick!

Phew! My eyes peeked from behind the cabinet, luckily the ceiling attachment did not scowl defiantly. Rather, its hushed luminosity fell perfect, brightening enough for Mamoni to wobble up to the table and drink water yet, tuned to the right intensity to not let my hidden frame zoom into plain sight.

That was close!

I forced myself to breathe even, given they came off in gasps, my chest jammed against the rough backside where an outcropping of wood poked and cut against my ribs. Mamoni emptied half a glass at a go, brushed her lips and arched, twisting and turning to the sides to relieve her ailing body from joint pains. Filling the bottle back, she sauntered through the corridor.

I stood immobilised- breath held, praying for her to just pass by and relieve me of the stress.

"That's odd", she said, peering over at the distance. My eyes stalked her line of sight but, it wouldn't work. Sandwiched in between left none to negligible scope for movements. I scooted further, away to the other edge so that even if she peeked, at least my face wouldn't ram into hers.

As if that's an improvement.

"Why is the.." I heard her voice and judging by the padding of her feet, the distance-

Oh, no! She's in front of me!

Terrified, I grabbed the wall, my nails screeching against the paint. At this rate, every second prolonged to an hour- endless with my breath stuck at the pit; Mamoni on the opposite side investigating whatever the hell she wasn't supposed to.

A single peep and I would be done, not to forget that altercation from earlier. She would show Siddhartha the door and shut him up permanently for life.

Stuck behind the giant block and sweating my blood out, I used all my perceptions to gauge her trajectory- closing my eyes with the mind focussed on one single objective and-

One..two..three..four..five..

If I guessed correctly, by the eighth or ninth second she would be-

Six..seven..eight..

Khat..khat..

Yes, the store-room! She was standing right in front of the storeroom. The old knob rattled with a clattery effect when Mamoni's hand landed on it. With a bang, she closed it tight.

Pfff! I sighed with relief.

"Who could have opened this?" she
murmured. "I closed the door before going to bed. Will ask Babin tomorrow."

And then, quite wondrously, she veered along, ambling towards her room.

Seconds later, the lights went out.

Solace descended upon my hyper frame and I felt myself sag against the wall; well, only as much as one could when semi-paralysed. There were a thousand reasons behind my getting caught and hurled out of that refuge. The lights weren't blazing, but they weren't dying either. An inkling, an ounce of suspicion and it would do the deed. One peek was enough to ground me for the entire week, or the rest of eternity.

The only thing that worked was my sheer luck, or might be her failing vision. Yes, finally, it boiled down to the two of those.

I hurled myself out of the closed space once the area cleared, sent a silent message to God and sneaked to the extreme rear- the last chamber- the guest room.

He would have to be here— a voice spoke. As I inched closer, the sense of foreboding from earlier flickered; coupled with a wave of unease and the peculiarity of the situation, it hinted at trouble from all directions. Yet, there arose an urge to hold on. Swimming against the odds, I edged along until my head bumped against the door. For an instant, in the partial dark, the lock seemed closed but, a second glance proved it wrong. The flap was open, indeed, and the very tiny aperture that formed between the frame and the flap could offer me a view of what was happening provided I went down on my knees and peeked right through with only an eye for company.

And so, I hunched, squatting to have a feel of the position that would best befit me. A sliver of light— the faintest one shone from the other side, from the very depths of the room. It could either be his cell phone or the laptop, I couldn't guess but, I would have to. There was hardly any choice. The last few months blurred my life to an effect I never imagined, but, now the tide ought to turn.

Today nothing will be missed.

                               ********

The moment my feet crossed the porch and stepped onto the lounge, I noticed changes. And by changes, I meant quite a few.

Two stout terracotta pots sat on either side of the main door. A chant hummed- low, meditative. The vibrance reflected off the pillars, radiated within the hall, oozing a fervour of sanctity and devotion. The air smelt sweet— of Tuberoses and Jasmins.

I perused the surroundings, admiring how the serenity of white dribbled into earthy hues, of Burnt Siennas and Dyke Yellows. Whoever did this possessed an intuitive understanding of colours and textures. Every floral arrangement manifested acute detailing, from the knots to the curls. Yes, the house had undergone a make-over.

The question was why and by who.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm rarely sceptic but, there's a limit to accidental occurrences. Your eyes can take only this much in a day. When one dwells in hell, heaven is definitely outlandish.

The deeper I sauntered, the quieter it grew. My nose caught a whiff of fresh sandalwood, I turned to the side and noticed burning incense sticks. The hand lobans appeared expensive- their carvings intricate and detailed. This was hardly surprising. Given Mamoni's knack for rare handicrafts and father-in-law's zamindari(aristocratic) bloodline, antiques and heritages were quite common in the Basu family.

"You're back!" Siddhartha's voice rang in the distance.

I didn't answer. A single glance was enough-the very sight of him burnt. Hatred-that's what I felt, the only emotion which never fully settles till it seeps within, scorching in ways you never imagined possible. So many times I had wished to bury it deep, its skeleton covered in dirt as I kissed its head goodbye but it raised from the dead- to sharpen its knife- to haunt and hunt.

I rebelled against myself. While conscience advised to take measured steps, instinct bullied me into giving in. There he stood, the person at the helm of all my suffering, the very person whose smiling face I dared to smother into minces. Dejection is akin to poison. It spins rage yet, strums fear.

Yes, fear. It's amusing and pathetic to see fear and hatred are interconnected. But, they're. The relationship runs deep. Without the abuse of loved ones and stomping of positive emotions, hatred has no existence; it's simply too weak to cause damage.

"I thought you'd come sooner", Siddhartha hastened towards me. I schooled my expressions into an air of nonchalance and beamed.

"Did I miss something? Was there a puja?" I asked. The 'puja' question wasn't sarcasm. Honestly, I couldn't come up with any other reason.

Siddhartha skidded to a stop. The khadi kurta and pyjamas cast a different vibe: cool and crisp, fresh to be exact; white on white looked good on him. 'Why am I noticing this?' I questioned myself. As if it changed a dam thing!

"No to both", he said. Then, without a word, took hold of my hand and walked me up to the living area. I flinched, the contact abominable. He gave a quizzical look; asked, "Any problem?"

"Nothing!" I shrugged. "Your palm's too rough."

"My palms have always been rough", he flashed a smile. "Did you just notice it now?"

Oh God, the torture! There's an extent up to which an elastic can stretch. After that, it simply snaps.

I inhaled- deep. The breath flew into every cranny and pacified my impatient self, its flavour of piety sinking into the skin before settling into an air of quietude; the flowers, the captivating aroma, the chants tranquillized my insomniac soul. Subtle it might be, yet, I welcomed the change with open arms.

We rounded the pillars and approached the space where the photo hung. Siddhartha halted a foot across. Silence descended, blanketing us like thick smog. I didn't ask anything. In my head thoughts churned- the space a melting pot of questions and intermingling emotions. Words dissolved even before they came out. They rendered me impotent, I could only perceive..think..rethink..and react..

"Today is..today is.." Siddhartha spoke but, struggled to articulate. He needn't utter a sentence, though; I already understood.

"Today.." he fought with words, again.

I walked ahead and perched myself on a stool. The run had taken a toll and my soles craved rest.

The lamination propped on a chest with fine carvings and spindly legs was gigantic; twenty by twenty inches at the very least. Its frame flaunted a twisted pattern, the braided detailing spoke of astute craftsmanship. I drew my fingers over the wood, feeling the texture-mildly grainy- smooth but, not glossy, rustic would be an appropriate word.

My eyes examined the person within. Baba's face manifested a touch of placidity. A faint smile hid behind those curved lips. He wasn't laughing, the expression was sombre but, something about his profile strummed a chord. Was it the lips or was it the eyes, or the whole visage in general? No, it had to be the eyes- so gentle and broad; they laughed and talked.

From the looks of it, he couldn't be more than forty-two or forty-five; quite young actually, the edges around his ears had just started greying. Seldom I wish I knew him personally. If I did, I would ask what happened, why he did what he did or if at all, he did anything. I would ask him about Mamoni and Siddhartha, why his son was reared differently. Who impacted his childhood and how much and why his wife made me the scapegoat? Given a chance, I would..

I sighed.

"Where's Mamoni?" I asked, finally.

"Locked herself inside", Siddhartha answered.

"When?"

"From early morning, ever since you left."

"This is a new photo, where's the older one?"

"In the store", he kept it short.

"That's why you were rummaging through the family albums?" I enquired. My tone dropped an octave, I didn't know whether I asked him or myself.

"Yes", he mumbled.

"Baba looks quite handso-"

"Th- the garlands..I asked the florist.." Siddhartha interjected, his voice rose. "Do you see these Jasmines?" he pointed to the long strands of the fresh blossoms. "I thought vertical rows will look wonderful, the traditional pattern is a bit outdated, don't you think?"

I agreed with a nod.

"And look at the roses! The man suggested pink. I still think..red would've been better." His tone wavered, breaking at several points.

"Baba's dead", I whispered. "Pink is absolutely fine."

My gaze skipped and met his. He stopped for a second. Then, continued. "Ff-finally I asked the guy to add these marigolds at the bottom. They look like pearls. So beautiful, aren't they?" his eyes moistened, brimmed with tears; yet, the ardour refused to die.

It was as if I was seeing a whole new him. Siddhartha and enthusiasm were probably the trickiest pair, his insouciant candour often vexing. Might be because, like me, he played it safe and I wanted nothing else than having my way with people. But, whatever be it, I doubted whether anybody had ever saw him bursting with such passionate intensity before. The way his face shone with a boyish charm, could these be faked?

He dragged a stool and sat on it, beside me; our thighs brushed. My salwar fabric was thin and so were his pyjamas. But, unlike last time, I didn't recoil.

Why?

His presence should've been repulsive! Yet, it wasn't and somehow didn't perturb me the way I envisioned.

Am I waning?

It was a tough call. Somewhere deep within, the rage had dimmed. I felt it and no matter how much I tried to overpower it, the strength fell short. This, accompanied by the happenings from yesterday hatched a stubborn sense of unease.

Siddhartha caressed my palms, his fingers sweated and drew scribbles. I didn't budge. Don't ask why, I never found the answer.

"Baba died eleven years ago." His hold tightened.

"Died?" I squinted.

"..The last few years we seldom met. I hated seeing him, hated being his son. The very idea abhorred.." he carried on, eyes settled at the distant horizon. Or, was it somewhere on the wall?

"I want to know him, Sreya. I wish I thought about it then. Why did I never cry? Why did I never want to find out? Why did-" he slapped his fingers over his face and started whimpering. "How did I turn out to be so..so..bloody useless?!"

Something clenched my abdomen, the feeling nauseous. Seeing him cry dug up memories, dead memories; they sent me reeling. Men seldom cry, they're very careful about expressing emotions, unlike us, women.

His voice came raspy, it reeked of self-hatred, despair. That vulnerability, the frail demeanour stirred a side within me I never wished awakened.

At that moment, it ceased to matter how much I hated him and why or what the next few hours had in store. What counted was that second, the earnestness in those eyes- his need to be sheltered, mothered. On instinct, I latched his head onto my shoulder.

"Do you know I paint?" he asked, catching me off guard.

"N-no. Do you?" I asked, bemused.

He shook his head- slightly; very brief and faint, as if he was in a daze- lost in dreams about some faraway land.

"I did, long ago", he affirmed. "Baba taught me. Don't splatter the blue all over, he warned. Here, hold the pencil like this and fade as you go down." Siddhartha spoke with animated hand gestures, modulating his voice to imitate the way a parent talks with a child.

"Observe the setting sun, Babi. Do you perceive the burst of red and vermillion around the disc? See how they faint to diverse shades of maroon, brown and even blue!" he wiped the tears and continued. "Blue? I don't see any blue, I would ask. And he would cup my face and turn it so that I saw what he wanted me to see. Now go and pour this on paper. Let your imaginations run wild-"

"Who's Babi?" I cut him off.

"He used to call me Babi, not Babin. Ma did..does."

"There's so much, Sreya, all bottled in here", Siddhartha pointed towards the centre of his chest. "It hurts, it hurts a lot. So many things to tell yet not be able to, the pain is intolerable. Why? Why didn't I ever ask him? He drank. Yes, he did. Drinking led to gambling and gambling led to-"

"Shhh!" I hushed. My arms worked their will and engulfed him in a hug, cupping his face. "We all store so many things here, Siddhartha." I placed a gentle finger on my chest. "You're not the only one. Sometimes, all it takes is a little push, a push that speaks highly of our zeal to go beyond the normal perception. Like how your father advised about the sunset. But, at the end of the day, it all boils down to that single push."

His eyes found mine. They read and studied, I couldn't fathom what. We sat like two peas in a pod- something we weren't, we could never be. Different, inconsistent and mismatched we were but, in a way similar— eerily similar.

Might be, we were plain We.

And that's all what I concluded, and that's all I hoped he inferred too.