Adultery Between Silence and Rain

[UnSpokenPages19]

Chapter 4 - Learning to Live with Silence

One month after the funeral
Nearly a month passed before I found the courage to visit Abhi's house again.
It wasn't that I didn't want to go.
Every time I thought about it, I remembered the ambulance, the silence outside the ICU, and the smoke rising above the cremation ground. Somehow, I kept finding reasons to postpone the visit.
One Sunday afternoon my phone rang.
It was Abhi.
"Busy?"
"Not really."
"Come over if you can."
There was no excitement in his voice anymore.
Just tiredness.
"I'll be there in half an hour."

As I parked my bike outside the familiar house, something immediately felt different.
For years that courtyard had been full of life.
Someone was always talking.
Children were running around.
The television was playing in the background.
Abhi would usually shout from inside before I even reached the door.
This time...
there was only silence.
Even the dogs sleeping near the entrance barely looked up.
I removed my shoes and stepped inside.
Abhi looked up from the sofa.
"You found the place?"
I smiled.
"Barely."
For the first time in eighteen years...
our usual joke didn't make either of us laugh.

His mother emerged from the kitchen carrying tea.
"You've become a stranger."
"I know, Kaku."
"You should have come earlier."
"I..."
I didn't know what to say.
She nodded gently.
"I know."
Nobody blamed me.
Yet somehow...
I still felt guilty.
While talking to Abhi, my eyes wandered across the living room.
His brother-in-law's favourite chair was still beside the window.
Exactly where it had always been.
Nobody was sitting there.
Nobody had moved it.
It looked as though everyone in the house had silently agreed that it still belonged to him.
Neither of us mentioned it.
We didn't have to.
Some absences become visible without anyone pointing them out.

A few minutes later I heard slow footsteps.
Pooja entered the room carrying a steel tray.
"When she finally stepped into the room carrying a tray of tea, I almost failed to recognize her.
It wasn't because her appearance had changed overnight. She still possessed the same graceful figure I remembered from the years before—the healthy curves that motherhood and her disciplined fitness routine had given her hadn't disappeared. The gentle fullness of her hips, the strength in her shoulders, and the toned shape of her legs were still evident beneath the plain cotton salwar she wore. But grief had somehow taken away the confidence with which she had once carried herself.
Gone were the bright colours, the carefree smile, and the effortless energy that used to fill every room she entered. Her clothes were now simple and faded, chosen more out of necessity than preference. The dupatta rested loosely across her shoulders, almost as though she no longer cared whether it sat properly. Her hair, once neatly tied before every family gathering, was gathered into a hurried knot, with a few loose strands framing a face marked by sleepless nights.
It wasn't that she had become any less beautiful.
She simply looked like someone carrying a weight far heavier than herself."
For a second I almost failed to recognize her.
Not because she looked different...
because she looked exhausted.
The cheerful woman who had laughed through every family gathering seemed to have disappeared.
Her hair was tied carelessly into a loose bun.
Dark circles rested beneath her eyes.
She wore a plain cotton salwar, without the colourful clothes she had once preferred.
Her face carried no expression.
No jewellery except the few things tradition still allowed her to wear.
She quietly placed another cup on the table.
"When did you come?"
"Just now."
She nodded.
"I'll bring some snacks."
"There isn't any hurry."
"It's okay."
She disappeared into the kitchen before another word could be exchanged.
I looked toward Abhi.
He simply lowered his eyes.
Neither of us knew how to talk to her anymore.

Just then tiny footsteps echoed through the hallway.
Her daughter came running into the room holding a broken toy.
"Uncle!"
She stopped in front of me.
"It broke."
I took it from her.
"What happened to it?"
"I dropped it."
"Then we'll have to repair it."
She watched carefully as I snapped the wheel back into place.
"There."
She smiled immediately.
"It works!"
Children have a remarkable gift.
For a few moments...
they can make even grief forget itself.

As she ran toward the courtyard she suddenly turned back.
"Will Baba see my toy when he comes home?"
The room froze.
Nobody answered.
Abhi stared at the floor.
His mother quietly wiped her eyes.
Without saying a word...
Pooja walked into another room.
The little girl looked confused.
"Why is everyone quiet?"
I forced a smile.
"Come...
show me your colouring book."
She happily ran away.
Sometimes...
distraction is the only kindness you can offer a child.

The afternoon passed slowly.
Nobody talked very much.
Even ordinary conversations felt forced.
Before leaving, Abhi walked me outside.
"Come again."
"I will."
"I mean it."
"I know."
As I started my bike, I looked back once.
Pooja was standing near the doorway.
She gave a small nod.
"Thank you for coming."
"I'll come again."
For the first time since the funeral...
I meant those words.

"One Sunday morning, I reached Abhi's house much earlier than usual. The village was only beginning to wake up, but the kitchen was already alive with the sound of utensils.
""You're early today,"" Abhi's mother smiled.
Before she could make tea, Pooja walked out carrying a kettle.
""It's already ready, Aai.""
Her hair was tied into a simple bun, and she wore a plain cotton salwar that had become her everyday clothing. She quietly served tea before helping her daughter get ready and then disappeared back into the kitchen. By the time Abhi finally woke up, half the morning's work was already done.
At breakfast, her mother called,
""Come and eat.""
Pooja sat down only after everyone else had finished.
""You're hardly eating these days,"" her mother said.
""I'm not very hungry,"" she replied with a faint smile.
Watching her that morning, I realized how much had changed. She woke before everyone else, looked after her daughter, managed the house, cared for her parents, and never once complained. No one thanked her—it had simply become part of everyday life.
I never said anything to her, but from that day on, I couldn't help noticing the quiet strength it took to carry an entire household while carrying so much grief of her own."
Two weeks later
I kept my promise.
This time nobody seemed surprised to see me.
Abhi was fixing the water pump.
His father was in the fields.
His mother was cooking.
The little girl spotted me first.
"Uncle!"
She ran straight into the courtyard.
"You came!"
"I said I would."
"You have to see my drawing."
She dragged me inside before I had even removed my shoes.
Children don't understand mourning calendars.
To her...
I was simply someone who played with her.

While she coloured pictures, Pooja sat nearby folding freshly washed clothes.
She spoke very little.
But unlike my previous visit...
she no longer disappeared whenever I entered the room.
Silence had slowly become something we all shared together.

During lunch, I noticed another change.
Pooja barely touched her food.
Her mother looked at her.
"Eat properly."
"I'm not hungry."
"You've been saying that every day."
"I'll eat later."
Her mother sighed.
"You always say that."
Pooja quietly broke another tiny piece of chapati.
Nothing more.
Grief had reduced her appetite long before it reduced her words.

After lunch her daughter wanted someone to play outside.
Abhi was busy.
His mother was cleaning.
Without thinking, I picked up the plastic cricket bat lying near the steps.
"One over?"
The little girl's face lit up.
"You bowl!"
For the next fifteen minutes she laughed every time she missed the ball.
At one point she hit it straight toward the flower pots.
"Oh no!"
I pretended to dive dramatically onto the grass.
"I saved the match!"
She burst into laughter.
Behind us...
I heard another sound.
A quiet laugh.
I turned.
Pooja was standing near the doorway.
For just a second...
the old smile returned.
Then she seemed to remember herself.
It disappeared.
But I had seen it.
So had Abhi.
Neither of us said anything.
Some victories are too fragile to celebrate.

"The afternoon passed quietly. Abhi had stepped out for some work, while the elders rested after lunch. The only sound in the house came from Pooja's daughter, who insisted that I help her build towers out of colourful plastic blocks, only to knock them down with delighted laughter moments later.
After playing for a while, she suddenly climbed onto the sofa beside me and rested her head against my shoulder.
""Sleepy?"" I asked.
She shook her head.
""No...""
Within minutes, she was asleep.
Just then, Pooja walked into the room carrying a stack of folded clothes. She smiled faintly when she saw her daughter sleeping.
""I'll take her,"" she whispered.
I looked at the little girl curled up against me.
""Let her sleep. I don't mind.""
Pooja hesitated for a moment before quietly nodding and sitting down nearby.
After a few minutes, she said softly, ""She doesn't usually fall asleep this easily.""
I smiled. ""Maybe she finally got tired of making me rebuild those towers.""
A small laugh escaped her.
It lasted only a moment, but it was the first genuine smile I had seen on her face in weeks."

A month later
My visits slowly became routine.
Sometimes I helped Abhi in the fields.
Sometimes I repaired small things around the house.
Sometimes I simply sat there drinking tea.
Nobody expected conversation.
Presence itself had become enough.
The little girl began waiting for weekends.
"Is Uncle coming today?"
If I missed a visit, she would apparently ask about me all afternoon.
One evening, as I prepared to leave, she tugged at my sleeve.
"You'll come next Sunday?"
"I'll try."
"No."
She folded her arms exactly the way Pooja used to.
"You have to promise."
I laughed.
"Okay."
"I promise."
From the doorway, Pooja quietly said,
"She remembers every promise."
I looked at her.
"So do I."
For the first time in weeks...
she didn't look away immediately.

As I rode home that evening, I realized something I hadn't understood before.
I used to think grief arrived all at once—that it reached its highest point on the day of the funeral.
I was wrong.
The funeral had ended weeks earlier.
The relatives had returned home.
The rituals were complete.
Life outside had continued exactly as before.
But inside that house...
grief had settled in like another member of the family.
It sat beside empty chairs.
It echoed through quiet rooms.
It lingered in unfinished meals and unanswered questions.
And somehow, without any of us planning it, my weekend visits had stopped being visits.
They had quietly become part of how we were all learning to survive.

Sometimes, healing doesn't begin with words.
It begins with someone quietly showing up... again and again.
I thought I was helping a grieving family find their way back to life.
I never imagined that those quiet Sunday afternoons would slowly change both of ours.
The funeral was over.
The rituals had ended.
But our story... was only beginning.