This poem brought tears. It reminded me of my first divorce. On the final day of the decree, she said she was scared so we held hands as we sat wordlessly on a wooden bench waiting to be announced in the judge’s presence. After the decree was received and signed for, our lawyer a model of efficiency and professionalism, we went downstairs to the chai tapri where we had a cutting chai each. Just like old times. She felt like having a smoke. And as usual, like old times, while she puffed away at the cigarette I offered her behind the shed, hidden from the world, I stood guard outside to shield her from unwanted attention that a woman smoker used to attract in those parts of Pune back then.
Extinguishing her cigarette, she called for her driver and car, and I held open the door, as usual. She sat and adjusted her saree, looked up and said, ‘Thank you’ and I nodded absentmindedly and closed the door, staring at my own reflection in the darkened glass, wondering stupidly why she’d thank me for something I’d done for 15 years as an almost involuntary instinct.
When I came to, I saw the car pull away to melt into the traffic and vanish from my sight, and I knew, and finally accepted, that this was the end.
It was the last time I saw her. It’ll be 11 years this 29th August.
I wonder if she remembers it like this. Or indeed if she remembers it at all anymore.
