A Secret Letter

A Secret Letter

5 mins 8.2K 5 mins 8.2K

A dead woman was lying on the bed, quietly, as a woman should whose life had been blameless. Now she was resting in her bed, lying on her back, her eyes closed, her features calm, her long white hair carefully arranged as though she had done it up ten minutes before dying, with a smile on her face. The whole pale expression of the dead woman was very collective and calm that anyone could feel she was a sweet soul who might have a quiet existence in this old soul.

Sitting beside the bed, her son, Siddharth, who was a strict Administrative officer and her daughter, Shyama who was a Psychology Professor in an University, were weeping as though their hearts would break. She had, from childhood up, armed them with a strict moral code, teaching them religion, without weakness, and duty, without compromise. Because of her sacrifice, good moral values and ethics, both of them was well settled in their respective professions.

They had hardly known their father, knowing only that he had made their mother most unhappy, without being told any other details.

Shyma was kissing her mother’s hand, whereas Siddharth was taking his hands slowly on the head of his mother.

A silent sound of footstep made their heads to look up, and the Shanti Masi was there, who had just come from dinner. She was red and out of breath from her interrupted digestion. Seemed she wanted to tell something to these two persons. She crossed herself and tried to say something, even though that was seeming something different than what she wanted to say. So she started slowly: "Well, my poor children! I have come to help you pass these last sad hours." Immediately Shyama told "Thank you, Masi, but my brother and I prefer to remain alone with her. This is our last chance to see her, and we wish to be together, all three of us, as we used to be when we were small and our poor mother…."

Grief and tears stopped her; she could not continue.

Shanti Masi tried to leave the place by saying "As you wish, my children" , even though she didn’t want to leave. Something she left behind what she wanted to say. She kneeled, crossed herself, prayed, arose and went out quietly, murmuring: "She was a Sanyasini!". Shyama was able to feel some criticism in the voice of Shanti Masi.

They remained alone, the dead woman and her children. The ticking of the clock, hidden in the shadow, could be heard distinctly, and through the open window drifted in the sweet smell of hay and of woods, together with the soft moonlight. No other noise could be heard over the land except the occasional croaking of the frog or the chirping of some belated insect. An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity surrounded this dead woman, seemed to be breathed out from her and to appease nature itself.

Then suddenly, Siddharth, busted out crying in a voice altered by grief: "Mamma….!" And Shyama was trembling, shaken by a storm of grief, gasped and choked.

The crisis slowly calmed down and they began to weep quietly, just as on the sea when a calm follows a squall.

A rather long time passed and they arose and the memories, those distant memories, yesterday so dear, to-day so torturing, came to their minds with all the little forgotten details, those little intimate familiar details which bring back to life the one who has left. They recalled to each other circumstances, words, smiles, intonations of the mother who was no longer to speak to them. They saw her again happy and calm.

And they loved her as they never had loved her before. They measured the depth of their grief, and thus they discovered how lonely they would find themselves.

It was all the best part of their lives which was disappearing. It was their bond with life, their mother, their mamma. They now became solitary, lonely beings; they could no longer look back.

Again, they heard someone approaching to them. This time, it was Ambika Chachhi. She sat in front of the dead body and started murmuring in a very loud voice “You were really a great spirit, you were leaving us alone, how could we live without you….you even didn’t think about Mohan, who was in so deep love with you…your love had made him mad…Don’t know how will be his condition after hearing this news….”. She became calm after completing this sentence.

Then she calmly came to Siddharth and asked whether he had informed this news to Mohan. Surprisingly, Siddharth enquired about this unheard name. then Ambika Chachhi told “Mohan was lover of his mother…”. “What…I never know…!!!” Siddharth reacted with a hating voice.

“You don’t know everyone in this village knows about their love stories..if you don’t believe then ask the people…even a kid can say about their love stories….I hate this kind of ladies….”- Ambika Chachhi left the place by saying this after giving a hateful look towards the dead body.

Siddharth got up from his place, crossed the room slowly, went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the dark night.

When he turned around again saw Shyama, with her eyes dry now, was still standing near the bed, her head bent down.

He stepped forward, quickly picked up the curtain to cover the face of the dead body.

“Let’s put all the stuffs used by her along with her dead body…”- by saying this, Shiddarth moved towards a big trunk that his mother used to use and was never allowing anyone to touch that, he opened it to take out all the stuffs.

A bunch of letters fell from a big closed parcel. The first one started: "My dear," another one: "My beautiful little girl," others: "My dear child," or: "My dear daughter." Suddenly Shyama started reading out a letter with loud voice “My dear Sister…When people make you feel unwanted, don’t leave them as you became useless for them…leave them because you no longer have a reason to stay. Sometimes, you have to be strong for yourself. Whats meant to be will end up good and whats not- wont. Love is worth fighting for, but sometimes you cannot be the only one fighting. At times, people need to fight for you. If they don’t, you just have to move on and realize what you gave them was more than they were willing to give them and more than they deserve.

Your caring brother,

Mohan….”

A line of tear came out from the eyes of Siddharth and Syama, while kissing on the head of the dead woman.


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