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Writer's pictureAMRITA MAZUMDER

The Rainy Night

It was eight in the evening. Mr. Chakraborty was making his way through the torrential rain. It had been raining for two hours and after a long wait in his office chamber, he decided to start for his home in this downpour, head bowed to the strong gushing wind that swept through his body, sending chills down as he got more and more wet. He of course had an umbrella with him but it seemed to be of no use. The road was deserted and dark. His colleagues had long left for their homes. He had to stay back for some extra work. There was no trace of moonlight. The streetlamps were not lit. Evidently, the electricity board had decided to cut off the power supply until the rain and storm subdues lest someone gets electrocuted due to any faulty wires. Occasionally, his path was lit by a fork of lightning in the midst of sky, followed by the great rumbling of thunder; as if the Gods of the sky were angrily arguing about something. He could not keep his umbrella steady. The strong winds kept throwing his umbrella off path and he had to hold it with both of his hands, his office bag clenched tightly under his armpit. It was a downpour Kolkata had not witnessed in years. All he longed for was his dry sung house and his favorite armchair, sitting on which he used to read his favorite novels.

At long last he reached his house. He used to live alone. Mrs. Chakraborty died few years ago. They were childless so all of his affections rested on his wife and, as his friends and acquaintances say, his emotions died with her.

Mr. Chakraborty went in through the main entrance door and turned on the switch. The light did not switch on. He must have forgotten that the power supply was cut off. Nevertheless, he heaved a great irritated sigh and went in to find a candle and the matchsticks. Making his way through the darkness to his show case in the living room, he got his ornamental candle out and a box of matchsticks. After three strokes, the matchstick’s head burnt and he lit the candle wick with it. The fact that he was soaked to his skin came to him in full measure and he immediately went to the shower taking his towel from his room. The hem of his trousers was deep in mud and his shoe was filled with dirty water logged on the streets.

He felt quite fresh after the shower as he dressed in his night suit. The candle light flickered in the little wind that made its way through the living room window to his bedroom. He sat on his armchair and kept the candle on the table beside it. He took out his unfinished novel from his bookshelf and started searching through the pages until he found the one he would start reading. This part was a very heart wrenching phase of the novel where the heroine of the story Kamal lata bids adieu to the hero of the novel and her lover Surjakanta. Surjakanta is now contemplating his love for Kamal lata and grieving the loss of his beloved because her father had arranged her marriage to some wealthy businessman in town. Mr. Chakraborty felt the pain of the protagonist. After all, he too had been separated from his beloved but atleast Kamal lata could return if she pleased, Mukta could not. Mukta was Mr. Chakraborty’s deceased wife.

As he read through the lines of the writer, he found the grief of Surjakanta quite similar to his. Quite true to the author’s words, a person once gone is gone forever. “Surjakanta’s face gleamed in the moonlight. The tears on his cheeks were rolling down reflecting the bright light. Even the nature is mocking me, he thought. ‘This beautiful evening is supposed to be the one which lovers cherish yet here I am sitting with my eyes so brimming with tears and my heart so filled with the agony of your parting. Is love so shallow that someone cannot break through the societal norms to be with their beloved? I had left everything for you Kamal, I loved you with every ounce of affection I possess yet how could you think of leaving me?’ Kamal lata could not say a word. She merely stood there in silence. Her bowed head gave away her feelings. She too loved him but she could not stand between her father’s pride and the respect he earned in the society through all these years of hard work. ‘Do not just stand in silence Kamal, say something’, Surjakanta demanded. But she did not respond. Her grief seemed to be beyond words. Surjakanta could not accept her going away. He simply could not understand the reason, it seemed too foolish to him but Kamal lata’s face was determined and he could no longer contain himself and succumbed to fresh tears, hiding his face on her lap. Maybe it is the last time he could bury his face in her lap and forget every worry he had, like he always used to. Maybe it is the last time her soft hands would caress his forehead and hair, like a mother calming down her baby. Maybe it is the last time when the end of her sari would be wrapped over his head and hers’ would come down just to plant a kiss and hold him tightly so that every inch of distress would go away….” Mr. Chakraborty could read no more. He was reminded of his ex wife and how she used to caress his worries away the same way Kamal lata does. Outside the rain was still poring heavily. ‘You know, there is something very magical in rainy nights’, Mukta used to say. ‘What do you find magical?’ Mr. Chakraborty used to ask. ‘I don’t know’, she used to reply, ‘It’s just, the rains appeal me. I find a calming happiness that I find nowhere else.’ ‘Does it include just staring out of the rain washed window and sipping tea?’ he used to ask. ‘No’, she used to reply ‘It includes you beside me in a dimly lit room, in silence, enjoying the beautiful weather.’

He could not quite forget her beautiful affectionate face and the touch of her soothing hands when he came home after a long tiring day of intense work even if it has been two years since she passed away. Mr. Chakraborty kept his book aside and went into deep reverie of thoughts of his wife as he stared out of the window, just as she used to. Mr. Chakraborty never quite understood how his wife knew when he did not have a good day at work. She used to come in the bedroom with two cups of tea and sat down beside him, in complete silence. It was as if there was an untold mutual understanding between them. Whenever he used to feel sad about anything, he used to lay his head on Mukta’s lap and let her relieve him of every pain and worry he had through every stroke of her fingers through his hair. The jingling of her gold and conch shell bangles used to give him a sense of peace that nothing else could. ‘What would you do if I died?’ Mukta often used to ask. ‘I would die with you as well.’ Mr. Chakraborty used to answer. And his answer made her laugh and he could never fathom the reason behind her laughter.

Mukta’s death is very fresh in Mr. Chakraborty’s memory, as if it were yesterday. She was returning home in a stormy rainy night as today, from her trip to the local bazaar. Unlike Mr. Chakraborty, she took shelter in a nearby bus stand shed but a live wire had already been torn due to the high speed wind and was in touch with the steel bar railing of the shed. Police officers who discovered her body said she touched the railing bar which resulted in her instant death. Her mangled body was brought in their house and after that he did not remember anything. He had gone into shock on finding the love of his life, which was alive and walking few hours ago, is now on the ground, motionless.

As the rain started to subdue, he longed to be united with his wife, who, somewhere, is also grieving her separation from him. Startled by his own thoughts, he dashed into the dining room and picked up the knife in the fruit bowl and placed it on his wrist. He wanted to end his agony. He wanted to be with her. He could not be alone anymore. But he could not slit his artery. He was too afraid to kill himself. He kept the knife down and went to his bedroom and lay on his bed, just like a living dead. Alive. Breathing. Yet not alive.

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