Non-erotic Dawn at Midnight By Pinuram - {Completed}

[usaiha2]

Chapter 5: Destructive Catastrophe


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I applied for my maternity leave in my college. On first week of November, ChotoMa called Himadri and asked his permission to bring me to Kolkata. I was in my third trimester and I was due on first week of February. ChotoMa wanted to take care of me until my baby would be born.

#

Himadri came with me to Kolkata. Before leaving, he kissed my cheeks and said---“Take care. I will call you every day.”

I was bit offended, I thought he would go down on his knees and kiss my protruding womb and would talk to the unborn baby. However, he did not do anything of that sort.

#

I stood at the balcony and watched him as he boarded the taxi and went away.

ChotoMa understood my sorrow and caressed my cheeks---“Paree, it is nature of all males. They do not understand the pains, that a mother has to bear. Only when the child is born, they take the credit. Come on cheer up, your ChotoMa is here to take care of you.”

I smiled at ChotoMa and hugged her.

She took me inside her room that night and gave me a beautiful mauve coloured chiffon saree.

ChotoMa said to me---“This is for your birthday. I missed my child’s birthday this year.”

She kissed my forehead.

#

ChotoMa and Babu were very much concerned as I had some minor complications with my uterus. My blood pressure was little high but my gynecologist explained it to ChotoMa that it was normal. She prescribed me to take walk after dinner. Sometimes I experienced a sharp pain emancipating from the back of my spine, spiraling upwards surrounding my hips. At first, ChotoMa said that it was normal birth pains. I could feel my sapling’s kick on the walls of my womb. The throbbing sensation was awesome. It felt like a heaven to me. The feeling of those small kicks drowned those sharp, vein writhing pains.

I was very happy, the way ChotoMa treated me. 

Every evening, Babu used to bring chocolates and vanilla ice cream for me. He used to chop apples and other fruits like oranges for me.

Every morning, it was a usual routine for Babu to take me for a short morning walk in the garden.

---“ShonaMa, don’t stoop. ShonaMa don’t bend.”

Sometimes I felt so annoyed that I had to scold him playfully---“Nothing is going to happen to your grandchild, Babu. I am ok.”

#

Himadri called few times, after he left. All those conversation were very formal ones. He used to ask whether I had taken my medicines or not or normal queries about ChotoMa and Babu. “What was taking him away from me?” I was unable to understand then. Was it his work pressure or his excessive booze or his carnal hunger?

#

I observed that the second floor room was open. One day I entered that room and found that the bed was not there, neither there was the table and chair. I could not even find the old small wooden box that contained his glass marbles. I was not missing him then because it was he who had not contacted me. I smiled at myself “My fate that you are not here and you didn’t even contacted me. I had to surrender Abhimanyu. I am sorry.”

At times, I looked at the huge painting of “Death of Socrates” that graced the wall of the drawing room. He was really a beautiful painter.

#

It was last week of November. The winter was knocking softly on the door of Kolkata, whispering in its ears that it has arrived. Peoples were in their sweaters and cardigans. I was sitting in the drawing room and reading a novel. Babu was not present; he was out for some work. ChotoMa was at college as usual. Before he left, he kept all my foods on the dining table and my medicines on the centre table. He cautioned me not to go downstairs to open the door.

My attention broke as I heard the doorbell.

I went to the balcony to find out as that could have ranged the bell. I saw a postman.

He shouted from downstairs---“Madam, airmail.”

“Airmail?” I thought. “Who could have send an airmail and to whom?”

Somehow, I went downstairs to collect the letter.

I took the white envelop and came to the drawing room.

The moment I saw the address and the handwriting, I felt a thunder to strike upon me. Every single nerve and veins shook. I could not believe my eyes. My hands trembled, my chest shook violently. To support myself, I held the railing of the staircase.

It was Abhimanyu’s handwriting on the envelop, postage stamp was of Brazil. His style of writing “S” was very artistic whenever he wrote my name. Very slowly, I came to my room. I was shaking like a twig caught in a breeze.

My heart and soul was racing very fast. “What could be written in that letter? Was he asking my forgiveness? Does that contain letters that he has married to someone else?”

I opened the envelop, it was blank. An electric pulse ran in my brain. 

I lit a candle and placed the letter in front of the flame. It was written in lemon juice, invisible to all.

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