Have you ever felt an emotion so strong? More powerful than
love? More potent than a lingering hatred? Know what I am talking of? Guilt.
In those moments after I hit her on the face for the first
time in her life, I knew I had done something as grave as a murder. I had
murdered the soul that reciprocated my love. I had lost her. I remorsed for
days after, I cried to myself, I did not meet her eye (I could not meet her
eye). Guilt, is what I felt. In immeasurable proportions. She slept alone, in a
room that did not have a bed. Her eyes did not lighten up, when I got back from
work the day after. She answered me every time, but no more than in a shallow unhurried
tone. Was it the shallowness of my soul that resonated in her voice? Or was it
the shallowness of the fading love within her. Or maybe I am too shallow, a
man, to figure it out. Then, one-not-so fine day, I hit her again (when I could
no longer compete with words in that bloody damned quarrel). This time on her
chin. And I cried again. But a little less this time. I felt guilt, but a
little less this time. She slept alone, in a room that did not have a bed. And
she never came back to sleeping in our room. She spoke less, and spoke nothing
of herself after that day. She answered less by her words and more by her nods,
after that day. And I had, evidently, dived into the depths of my own
shallowness. How does it matter if it was the shallow of my departed soul or
her already faded love?
I remember very clearly, how her eyes used to lighten up at
the sight of me when I got back from work. And I remember very finely (after
that one-not-so fine day) how her eyes went all dull every time I wanted to
reach out to her and say ‘Baby, I am home’. She wasn’t waiting, anyway. But I
had lost that respect the day I knew I was enough a coward that I could hit
her. And I could never win that respect again. Neither did I try (I had proved
myself to be a fucking coward already).
Then it happened one-yet another not-so fine day again (when
I could not find enough words to counter her in that bloody damned-as-hell
quarrel). That woman had the guts to disagree with me every single time (when
she knew I would punch her black and blue). Imagine my frustration (after all I
am a MAN). Didn’t she deserve to be shown her rightful place? It was her cheek
bone this time round. And the cheek bone appeared more round than ever (I
concentrated on her face every time). All the beauty of her face vanished and I
never saw that beauty radiate on her face again. Did she deserve to be
beautiful? Wonder why she used makeup very first thing in the morning. She
slept alone, in a room that did not have a bed. She sat alone, in the living
room that did not have a T.V. Her eyes were engulfed in the darkest circles I
have ever seen on anyone. She did not answer me and her head was too stiff to
nod. And I was too bloody over it to weep or to feel guilt. Shallowness of me?
What a fucking joke!
Beating, it continued. Thrashing, it thrived. A regular
feature for a year or so. I always focused on her face (my favorite area). I beat
her; she never cried a single tear. That woman did never protest. Evidently,
she knew her place by now. Maybe, she had moved on. Moved on? Moved on to what?
Moved on to better things in life? How would I know? I am a MAN. But I can be
sure of one thing, her daily chore included makeup. A lot of makeup. Silly
woman! Never did step out of the house but was always in the guise of
cosmetics. What a wastage! Especially when those cosmetics did not seem to hide
her darkest circles. She still slept alone, in a room that did not have a bed.
She sat alone, in the living room that did not have a T.V. She stood alone, in
the balcony that did not have any stairs. Maybe, that is why she jumped off it!
And something inside me felt guilt again. I sensed again. I
cried again. And I was guilty of a murder. Murder of a body. For that loving soul
had already seen its death at the first violent kiss.
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