The month was December, the date being 15th. Sound of alarm resounded off the room as bright sunlight escaped the rusty iron grills of the windows, and slight warmth from the morning rays snuggled the headboard.

Siddhartha jolted to a start, passed a fleeting glance on either side. 'When and how did I get in here?' Stupefied, he couldn't piece the missing parts of the puzzle. The last he was aware of, he had been lying cold and numb on the floor. His red eyes provided a foggy vision, his sore hands and stiff bones crackled with every movement, sending lines of pain throughout. What was hard to figure was why the alarm was howling like a bitch when he had not set it in the first place!

"Fucking crazy!" he cursed and tossed the water bottle towards the yelling machine, it fell with a metallic thud but continued ringing.

The alarm had been set by his wife, she was the missing piece. Everyday, it rang at 6.30 in the morning, that day being no different. Still dazed, but in better control, Siddhartha observed how she had refused to take it along, in fact every trivial item was at place! The dressing table was littered with those same two or three shades of nail polishes, a lone lipstick he had often see her apply, lay with its cap open. The clothes hung in disarray from the hanger, from the kurtas to her salwars, they were all there, it was as if she hadn't left!

"Does it always feel like this?' he pondered.

"If you ever feel you are not important to someone, leave their life silently.." his father's words flashed by. Siddhartha squinted in an effort to push back the tears, but what to do? They were as much a jerk as him. They fell in droplets forming a damp pool on his black trousers.

"Fuck!" he cursed.

He was a man, he ought not to cry!

He never cried when his father died, did he? No. Why? His mother strictly forbade the soon to be his eighteen year old self that real men face things hard, vulnerability is not tolerated in this world. Plus, his father wasn't capable of being a good father in the first place! She had explained why she considered herself a virgin mother because all he did was donate a sperm!

Siddhartha scoffed. Shrestha was the epitome of the phrase The best effort of a fine person is felt after they have left.

The fault was his, the demon was him, the ghoul resided in his mind, he was Hyde and Hyde all along, there was no Dr Jekyll.

*********

'I hold no grudges against you, even though my life became a topsy turvy tale of misery and heartache. If you ever manage to man up, get over your mother.." Siddhartha read the rest of the letter. Shrestha was his wife, but she was never given her due. Throughout her stay, she had been torn apart by judgements and...and..what would he call it? Rape? Copulation? He swallowed, the dryness of his throat resonated his guilt.

Would it hurt to accept he found her wide, doe eyes bold and daring? Would it wound his male ego if he, for once, shouted from the rooftops that his chauvinism had more to do with his insecurities than outward brashness?! Could he ever man up, stand face to face with his mother and point out what she did was wrong! That his father's drinking accelerated due to their wild and wide discrepancies and not just because he was a lame, ass person!

Would he be able to acknowledge his sex-crazed side, the evil Mr Hyde? Did he have the bravery to rush to wherever his wife was, fall at her feet and repent his brute antics? Would he?

The more Siddhartha thought, the more frustrated he got. Agitation came in a close second as, buried within the eternal depths of his mind, the answer glinted in eerie boldness. He knew something was wrong with him for years, he failed to understand what it was. Lost within strict discipline and draconian protocols of his mother on one hand and extreme, perceived passivity of his father on the other, he found a lingering touch of closeness and comfort in his best friend's older sister.

But, but...that was..wasn't it the start of all evil? Wasn't it what..

Siddhartha shivered as sordid flashbacks sent volts of electricity through his nerves, he seizured at the impact. Addiction is genetic and for him, probably that toxic relationship was the trigger.

Sex had never been pleasurable. If he gave a careful thought, wild, unhindered copulation was needed to numb the pain of not feeling anything. Through years, he coveted more stimulation, more pain and every time he ran in a vain pursuit after that single stimulus to bask in the ecstasy people talked about, he ended up feeling more and more worthless..untill.. untill..there wasn't anything left to grieve for!

*********

'Acceptance is tough, denial is easy.' He was in the last part of the brief letter, the paper was a crumpled mess and his dampened hands worsened the quality. He laughed to himself. 'Do you know, Shrestha, I have acknowledged my dualities for so long, I almost forgot how much trapped am I? And you talk about denial being easy!" He felt like spitting at and stomping on it, wanted to tear the piece of junk to pieces but something held his hands, as if someone was pulling him from the behind. He yearned to be free of the hold, cursed his inadequacy to tame a single, lone woman, but stopped.

Shrestha was no single, lone woman!

She was a raging ball of fire!

How much courage would it take for Siddhartha to accept the ferocity in her gentleness?

Just how much presence could a woman leave to feel her touches everywhere, even when she was gone for good?

To be honest, Siddhartha didn't have the guts to comprehend, he was after all a failed man.

********

"What am I hearing Babin, she left! What the hell? She left!" his mother stormed into the house. Throwing her luggage to the sides, Mrs Gayatri Basu strode past the foyer, past the hall and halted to a stop in front of him. Snatching the bottle of wine from his hands, she shrieked, "I knew this would happen! I knew it, she was never this homely girl like we all wer-"

Bloody bitch!

"Ma please!" Siddhartha cut her off. Vexed and irritated beyond relief, he got up to slam the door right on her face.

Apparently, it would seem he obeyed his mother, he knew Sreshtha thought so too, but who would believe it wasn't the case. That woman, accidentally his mother, was and had always been incorrigible!

"With whom did she leave?" She grabbed the note from his hand and with a frown, scanned it. "Oh, look at this", she slapped the worn out paper. "What nonsense is written here? 'We were never destined to be togeth-'"

"Am I dumb? Do you think I am dumb? I look stupid to you, don't I? Haven't I been reading this? Stop it, ma. For heaven's sake, stop it!"

Siddhartha stood with a start, seized the letter back and took a large gulp from the wine bottle, all the while Mrs Basu sent daggers at him.

He couldn't believe how his mother still had the nerves to yell when they bloody didn't know where his wife went! Whether she was at all alive! Yes, he never cared for her, made her life hell, he was aware she deserved more, and to be honest, he lacked the nerve to stand up to her honesty.

How would he be able to? That woman was the living epitome of truth, of passion, of madness. The kind of madness that allowed you to be sane amidst wild ecstasy. She was not just any woman, she was The Woman.

If only he, or his mother could live up to her worth.

He needed release, he pined to find a release within somewhere, rather someone. He was certain it would be futile. Discomfort was setting in fast, soon he would cease to be in sense, soon all the remnant rationality would be thwarted by the darkness that lurked behind his refined image. It was time for the monsters to possess him, it was time for pain to hold his hand and drag him back to the dungeons he crawled out of.

He might squirm, he might fight, he might struggle, but he was sure to succumb. It was time to be numb again, to be thawed, to be frozen and let the devil play its parts.

Siddharth Basu was a victim of anyone but himself.

And no one, absolutely no one paid any heed to it, except the person he glossed over the most. It was none other than his wife, Shrestha Basu or would Shrestha Sen be more appropriate?

He took another large gulp, the bitter and pungent liquid burnt his insides, ignited the deep tornado boiling inside for weeks as the letter rested on the table.

'...If you ever manage to man up, get over your mother and seek a therapist who can usher some light into the prison your mind has become...I leave this number, should you ever change..Dr K. Mishra 9114350678(consultant therapist).'

But Siddharth needn't man up, he only had to humane up.

AN:

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