"And they lived happily ever after," they said. Rajesh Kaka would like to speak to whoever wrote that.
It was a perfect ending only in fairytales.
To him, it was one of the most ludicrous concepts invented by mankind.
After all, what was ‘happily ever after’? How could one possibly measure it?
Rajesh Kaka was sixty – six.
He’d married at the age of twenty-five, to the most beautiful woman he’d set his eyes on. The textbook definition of happily ever after followed: three children, all raised to be successful. Two were engineers, one was a doctor, and some even settled in the US, as Rajesh Kaka would say, thumping his chest proudly at family gatherings. A stable, well – paying government job that allowed him and his wife, Lakshmi to retire comfortably. They would talk for hours on end about spoiling grandchildren, ticking trips off their bucket lists and growing old together.
But all good things have to come to an end. When his wife died a year ago, his children flew in for her last rites but left as soon as the ashes were immersed in the sacred Ganga, leaving Rajesh Kaka to grapple with the crushing loss all alone.
It is funny how we spend a lifetime learning how to find missing angles, comprehending the unyielding law of physics and learning how to meticulously balance ledgers of debit and credit but nobody prepares us for when the cold, brutal landscape of grief hits. It is nothing short of cruel that a person has to navigate its shattering depths all alone, like a person drowning in the sea, with no means to propel themselves out.
Today especially, he felt her absence more than ever. The sky was the perfect shade of pink, not too light, not too dark. It was his favorite hour. It reminded him of the way she blushed every time he bought her fresh gajra.
He took the long route this morning, past the temple where he’d once prayed for the children who he now rarely sees, down the narrow roads where the flower vendor set up her baskets. She nodded at him, fingers working through bits of jasmine. Rajesh Kaka nodded back.
At the end of the road stood an old building, its façade crumbling under the weight of age. A little girl, no older than his youngest granddaughter, was hunched over the potted plants outside the gate, watering them. Her hair was oiled and braided, swinging like a pendulum when she moved. When she heard his footsteps, she looked up and waved at him. He smiled and waved back. He didn’t know her name. Neither did she know his.
He took a sharp left and walked past rows of small shops, the confusing smell of fresh vegetables and diesel hitting his nostrils all at once. He stopped at the chai tapri. A young man in a faded cricket jersey looked up from the steaming milk and noticed Kaka. Instantly, his hands reached out for a clean glass and poured him a cutting chai. “Ek hi naa kaka? (only one, Kaka?)” he asked. Rajesh nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat.
Savoring his glass of sweet, hot tea, he looked around. The neighborhood was just waking up and there were sounds of couples bickering from behind closed doors. Morning quarrels, he mused, a wistful smile crossing his lips. He looked away and tried to ignore the clamor.
As he walked back, the stray dog near the post office perked at the sight of him. Rajesh pulled out a packet of Parle - G and threw a couple biscuits to the dog. It wagged its tail in acknowledgement.
Back home, he opened the windows wide and let the sunlight spill across the floor.
He made himself a plate of poha and reached out for a second plate, out of habit. Only, there was no second person in the house.
It’d been a year now. The most painful thing about grief, he had learned, was not memory. It was habit. The habit of calling out across the bed and hearing no reply. The habit of wearing a white kurta on Fridays because she liked it. The habit of turning to share his annoyance over the neighbor's nosiness, only to find the space besides him empty.
The habit of setting out an extra plate of poha.
He watered the plants, rearranged the books on the shelves, and fixed a photo frame that didn’t need fixing, just so his fingers could trace her cheerful, smiling face.
The clock ticked in eerie silence.
He switched the TV on, in an attempt to drown out the silence. The news anchor today was too loud. He kept the TV on regardless.
He set his plate of poha, cold now, on the dining table. The table had four chairs. He only ever used one.
It had been eight months since anyone from his family visited.
But he still dusted all four chairs, the only remaining traces of a family that had promised him ‘happily ever after.'
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