Closure

An asshole died a saint today.

                                                    ***
A year ago.

She loved exchanging hand-written letters. It was the most romantic act of love for her. A lost memory. Letters. The smell of paper. A lost memory.

He often asked her why letters. And she replied with her usual smile, “Conversations always work better inside our heads. Come to think of it, do we have any other option?”

“You can talk to me,” he conveyed.

“I’m lazy, you know that. I prefer writing over moving my hands incessantly,” she conveyed.

He was mute. She was deaf. Sipping customary coffee after their dance class were they.

“If you are so lazy, how did you end up enrolling for the dance class?” he asked.
“What is music to you?” he added.

She took his hand and placed on her bosom.
“You feel that? My beating heart? That’s my music.”

“Still, why?”
“Because writing is how my soul feels free and body does when I dance. A day without dance is a day wasted.”

“My letter? Did you forget it?”
“Do you really think I would? Here you go,” she said, handing over the letter to him.

The letter said,

"You know, I had a strong urge to buy hearing aids once. I wanted to hear the water flow, birds chirp, children scream, mom sing. But that was until I met you, honey. I was happy with our sign language. I am happy with you. And the best part - it is not a sacrifice I have made. It is a choice. A willingly made choice. An opportunity to see your fingers move elegantly and convey those stories to me. I don’t want to hear the stories, not with you. I want to see them move within your gestures.

I still remember the day when I proposed to you. It was raining but our souls were on fire. And you promised to keep the fire burning. So let me tell you that the fire is still alive and raging. Within us. You and me. All that is beautiful in my life is because of you. You are the reason my life is worth its moments again.

Love,
Sandra"

He finished reading the letter. It was their love tradition.

“What’s love tradition?” he had asked. She had mentioned it in her first letter.

“How do you define a tradition? A belief being passed on from one generation to another, without it being necessarily true or worth it. Let this letter be our tradition, our belief. This would keep our love alive. No matter what happens, I’ll write to you. And you’ll reply. Once every month.”

“I can’t even write. Why did you ask me to reply back then?”

“To be sure that you are reading them,” she said cheekily and punched him on his shoulder.

“Tell me first. Stop hitting me!”
“You are just the kind of a reader every writer deserves.”

“What does that mean?”
“I’ll elaborate in our next letter.”

                                                 ***

Her manuscript was nearing completion. The plot? Her life was her plot. Her life was the manuscript for her debut novel. And nothing was altered. She mentioned every incident as it happened. Obviously, the book was headed for a happy ending. The climax was her marriage.

She had already secured a publishing deal with a major player in the market. All set for the avalanche of happiness speeding down at her. Marriage. Book. Love. Literature.

He was completely unaware of being a character in her story. She was going to give him a surprise on publishing the book eventually. But another surprise awaited both of them. Without a happy ending.

                                                 ***

A month before a year ago.

"KISS - Keep It Simple Silly. It sounded silly to me. Until I met you. Until I read you. You have never used a single fancy word. A word that took me to the Dictionary. And yet your words have never failed to touch me. Yes, you have a lot to improve. Yes, it can be made better. But the rawness of your creation comes across. Straight from the heart to the paper.

Sincerely,
J"

“Where’s the love, where’s the love?” she asked furiously.
“Where? Where?”
“In the letter’s closing.”
“It’s called Valediction. Bet you didn’t know that!”
“Don’t you dare change the topic!”

He had written the letter first for that month.

“There’s no such thing as love,” he answered.
Without a tinge of hesitation. His eyes firm with belief and standing by his signs.

She had no answer.

“I adore your words and letters. I enjoy your company. But don’t tag it as love. I would rather call us companions,” he conveyed.

Her eyes were moist. She pretended that something had entered her eyes. Nothing had. They were genuine tears.

"I had expectations before meeting you. A partner who was supposed to satisfy my criterion of “C factors”. Calm composed controlled funny smart honest. Well, it’s not about the C factors entirely. *wink*

Anyway, I wanted a guy who could fulfill all those. Check, check, check. But that’s not how you find love, that’s just grocery shopping. I hoped to find someone to fall in love with. But how - that remained a mystery.

Until I met you in the dance class. Until you read me. The fact is that you never know until you find that special one. And then I realized what I actually wanted. A partner with whom I did not have to pretend. I could be the weird, crazy, volatile me. Insecurity makes us pretend. That’s what you have gifted me with your presence. A sense of security. That I’m great the way I am. You gave me the belief to trust in my abilities. And the best thing about you is - you have never tried to change me. Accepted me with all my imperfections.

Got you worked up, right? So on a casual note, will you marry me? :).

Love,
Sandra"

That was her letter for that month. She hoped he would be jumping with joy on reading it. But he remained only C factors. Calm composed controlled.

He smiled and conveyed, “I’ll reply and give you my answer. Need some time to digest it.”

                                                  ***

A year ago.

She waited for his answer but did not mention it. Marriage must be running in his mind too, she thought. But it wasn’t exactly marriage that was running in his mind. Rather turning down her marriage proposal was.

And then struck a paralysis attack. Sack, back, pack, track, knack, lack, hack, stack, rack, whack. A paralysis attack. 

She did not know what to do as his entire body contorted. He could not move. Not legs, not hands, not face, not even the eyes. Barring his right eye, the entire body was affected by the attack. 

Watching him being admitted into the hospital, Sandra still could not come to terms with it. The avalanche was just an avalanche perhaps. Destructive, shattering, powerful, mighty and not even remotely related to happiness.

                                                ***

“What will be the climax then?” Sandra’s editor wondered. 
She added, “Is it going to be the happy ending you had planned initially or the real deal?”

“I don’t have an answer. Neither for your question nor for mine. Paralysis got hold of him before I got my closure.”

“I understand. But we need to finish the manuscript and proceed with the publishing process. We’ll jump the timeline otherwise and incur losses.”

She nodded in agreement. 

“So what is it going to be?”

She let out a sigh and answered, “Our marriage. I could never imagine any other climax for us. I’ll start working on it.”

Sandra did eventually write a fictional climax for a non-fictional story. Her debut novel - Love unheard of was promoted and marketed intensely as part of the pre-launch program. It was not much of a surprise then to see it becoming a best-seller in the urban romantic fiction genre. 

‘The protagonists did not demand sympathy and the book remained a breezy read thanks to the weirdly eccentric and chirpy Sandra,’ one of the top book reviewers posted online. 

                                                   ***

Sandra did not marry anyone else. She decided to spend her life beside J’s bed. It never occurred to her that there could have been a rejection coming her way. Never ever. J was going to marry her if it wasn’t for their vile fate. Well, so she assumed. 

And what could he clarify with a single eye’s blink anyway? Or could he?

J’s family, however, could not take it anymore. They wanted him to embrace death rather than endure the plight. The hospital bills had a say too in their wish. It was decided then. Passive euthanasia it was going to be. Sandra was infuriated at this decision but did not retaliate. It made peace with her rational mind but remained at war with her love-maddened heart. 

                                                  ***

It was J’s day of death. Sandra requested the doctors and J’s parents to leave her alone with him for a while. She had brought along a copy of her book and a letter. 

She showed the book to him, pointing at her name on the front cover. 

“It is our story. Sold over 50K copies. I’m rich, baby,” she joked, trying to laugh.

She held his hand and read out the letter to him:

"It’s been a year since I wrote a letter. When we were still sipping our coffees a year ago, I had promised to explain in my next letter why you were a reader every writer deserves. 

It was never about your extensive vocabulary. Or your ability to quote famous authors. Neither about your colossal collection of books. You had something far more special. Your honesty. 

If something was beautiful, you ensured that your appreciation came through. If it was not, you remained a constructive critic. Helping the content and the person grow. You listened with intent, trying to gauge why something was written the way it was written. Didn’t impose your suggestions right away. You understood literature. What it really meant to write one’s heart out!

And last but certainly not the least, you loved me. Your love has been the single greatest driving force for my aspirations. You are pure magic, honey. Pure magic for me. 

I’ll miss you J. But don’t worry. We both have been written down. Our story shall exist beyond our existence. I love you J.

Love,
Sandra"

She kept the book and the letter in his embrace. And then left. Doctors took over for granting him death. 

Sandra still did not have her answer. Her closure. Was there any way for J to talk to her? She could never think of any.

“Tell him entire alphabets. A B C D E...LMNOP...YZ. And ask him to blink quickly twice for the letter he wants,” Sandra’s five-year-old cousin remarked on their way back home.

She had just finished explaining J’s condition to him.

She stopped her car and took a U-turn. But J was dead already. 

Why was J not going to marry Sandra though?           

Because Sandra belonged to a different caste.                                

Well-read, my ass. It was Sandra who had put him on a pedestal. 

                                                    ***

An asshole died a saint today.