An Apocalyptic Christmas

He had grown to loneliness as creepers grow on deserted mansions.... .... since his retirement, since his first stroke; since she departed... ... the years had applied coats of reticence over him. Like the dark painted nails in a beauty magazine, he thought. Only in his case the enamel won’t flake off. She loved to paint her nails. He gazed wistfully at the array of bottles on the dressing table-some empty, some half-filled. The dried varnish once red, orange, purple, pink-now black... all the different shades of pain.

Loving her was like a day in autumn- ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness’. He prided on their ripe love but dreaded the inevitable consequence. Didn’t they say ‘ripeness is all’? But nothing could enervate their love ... ... not even death. Yes, it was still throbbing and young. She died at the age of 33. It’s the very age when Love it self died, he reflected but in her case it wasn’t on a couple of intersected wooden beams. She would have been 68, this winter ... but death has eternalised her age. Forever thirty three, forever young, beautiful and steadfast to this septuagenarian widower.
When he had married her, she was so young and delicate that he was afraid to touch her. Those dark innocent eyes gave his heart a tug whenever he looked into them. And then the fear of losing her would wash over him, anaesthetizing him till he congregated all his might to chide himself out of his apoplexy. Strangely enough that fear of loss had died with her. It should have been, ‘paradox! Thy name is Life’. It’s a pity, the great master spoke so unfairly of the fair sex. For those ten years of marital life his entire being was so full of her thoughts that no other thing seemed to have any existence. And after ten brief years of pure, crystalline bliss, he suddenly found him self at the dead end of the road. Living without her was an anathema. But what had he done to incite the wrath of the Gods?
He had tried to possess her-body and soul. Was that his tragic flaw? But what else could he have done? Not that there was a dearth of pretty girls in the college ... some would have scaled risky heights to trek the path of life with him. And why not? He had a promising future ahead ...But he just couldn’t summon enough courage. Shyness perhaps was his tragic error. He was nicknamed Michelangelo by his class mates for his indifference to the opposite sex, but he endured their sneers without any flutter. He had pledged to lavish on his wife all his love. And he had lived up to that self commitment. After her death, he was pestered by friends and relatives for tying the knots again. It was blasphemous! Didn’t they know he was wedded to her love for the rest of his life?
Occasionally, when his friends paid visits, she played the perfect hostess, however maintaining a certain subtle aloofness. That impressed him very much. Today there’s no shame in confessing that whenever a certain friend paid particular attention to her, he felt jealous. But isn’t jealousy an ingredient of love? There was this friend— whom she nicknamed Lucifer — who particularly adored her. She felt he was ‘needlessly friendly’. It gave him unspeakable pleasure to see Lucifer make advances and retreating crestfallen. The setting was perfectly Biblical but the act of temptation would never be fruitful. Nothing could beguile his Eve. Their paradise would never be lost. He sometimes wandered, ‘What do I have in me to make her ignore handsome guys like Lucifer?” Perhaps it was pure love and devotion. She was hopelessly devoted to him. Hopelessly attached. The very thought of being separated from her was death.
Throughout that thrilling decade he was compelled to stay away from her only on three occasions — once, when he had to be away, on an official tour to Jaipur, ... ... ... .. God! Those three days seemed like three deserts he had to cross on foot; then, when she miscarried, and had to remain in the hospital for a week ... ... ... he would give anything to forget that trauma ; ... ... the fatal infection following the miscarriage which effected the final separation ... ... ... will it ever end ?A mild rumbling of thunder hauled him out of his memories. A fine drizzle began to descend on the dry ground. Brumal rain. How she loved it! The rain drops playfully drummed on the eaves and turned the panes hazy. But why did his glasses get hazy.. .. .. hasn’t he left spring far behind? Involuntarily he rose from the easy-chair and walked towards her cupboard. He had not opened it since she left. He said a little prayer as he stood before it. He could do nothing to stop the trembling of his hands as he removed the piles of neatly folded clothes, to retrieve the album which treasured her photographs. Where could she have tucked it away? Since her death he had not the need to open the album ... ... ... ... she was always there on his mind smiling, pouting, whispering sweet nothings... .. .. Why was he looking for it today? Senile whims ... ... ... ...
Suddenly, his fingers touched something hard beneath a pile of woollen clothes. He carefully removed the pile-it was a beautiful rose-wood box with exquisite carvings--the gift which he had brought for her from Jaipur. His hands trembled so violently that it necessitated all his gripping power. Slowly he staggered towards the bed with the box held closed to his heart. He couldn’t tell for how long he sat undecided on the bed with the box held tightly in his hands. Finally with a Herculean effort he lifted the lid ... ... it was like resurrecting the past that had been buried for thirty-five long years. There were trinkets— a few pairs of earrings, rings, a gold chain with a heart shaped locket he had never seen her wearing this chain ; but then she had so many of these that it was hard to remember. As he touched the purple coloured velvet handkerchief, on which the jewellery rested, the blood in his veins seemed to ripple…. ... it was like caressing her face after so many years. He softly lifted the square piece of velvet. And it was then his eyes came to rest on the envelop that was concealed beneath--no! there were two envelops. With jittery fingers he brought out the sheet of paper from the first one. It was dated tenth of April, a weak prior to his departure to Jaipur:
Dearest M,
It seems incredible. Just another week to go and you would be mine for three whole days and nights. The mere thought of it sets my blood on fire. I promise you’ll receive your much awaited gift this time.
Yours ever
Lucifer
It’s a pity the great master spoke so unfairly of the fair sex.

The next letter was written on the 23rd of September, a fortnight after her miscarriage:
Dearest M,
I’m terribly shocked at the news. How could you be so careless to lose my baby like that? But then you could call it a blessing in disguise. Had the child lived, it could never have had the privilege to call me ‘father’ ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Nothing could beguile his Eve. Their paradise would never be lost.
The rest was blurred ... Blankly he replaced the letters in the box, stood up and walked steadily across to the corner where the dressing table stood ... .. ... ... ..She loved to paint her nails.
She was hopelessly devoted to him.
“Needlessly friendly.”“My baby”Stupefied he picked up the shabby bottles and threw them one by one, out of the window. A tide of nausea swept across his entire system, making him turn sharply to grip the bed post for support... ... ... And as he began to slump on the floor, his eyes caught those magical numbers on the date calendar on the table... ... 25... ...December 25... Christmas was being celebrated all over the world. And love was dead long ago.

Chanted By MORPHIANA