Photo credit Edited in Pixlr

The harvest season is near marking the beginning of the harvest festival. The hymns could be heard from a distance like every evening in the temple. This was an indication for all the villagers to head towards home as the darkness was approaching. The villagers working in the field returned with their empty buckets that were filled with water and food. After a day of hard work, it was time for them to spend a relaxing evening with their family and to plan their celebrations. The cowherds moving their cattle inline, and the goats following the shed on their own. The women of the village decide to continue the evening gossips for the next day to tend to their dear husbands.

Gauri, too, went inside the house straight to the worship room and burned the incense sticks, then went near the Tulsi, a religious plant for Hindus and fixed them at the bottom of the plant. A custom ritual that she has been doing since she was married at the age of eighteen. She looked towards her neighbouring house and called Madhurima, a friend cum sister for her since they had spent youth together, got married in the same village and saw each other bearing children. Gorgeous Madhurima, whose cheeks were as white as milk and a smile that made any man fall for her now turned into a dusky old woman. Now, the wrinkled skin and white hair were all she got.

Gauri had enough time to stare at the sky, moon, stars and to talk with the evening visitors. She had to kill three hours before she could have her supper. Sometimes, when no one visits she opens up her old trunk and looks at the few black and white pictures with full of spots as if someone has sprinkled coffee drops on it. The old trunk which was the only thing she brought to the house when she was married. She opens up the trunk and looked at the picture to live the memories of the past, the moments that she had partly forgotten and the rest which she remembered very well.

The festival used to be different from what it was now, the festival was different from her husband. She held the picture with her trembling hands, the old black and white, an old memory which she had been preserving for two decades. A beautiful glimpse of her standing right next to her husband with his arms on her shoulders. She was nineteen when the photo was taken, the day when they had visited the nearby town. During those times of sixties, taking a photo means one had achieved something in life and it was a trending hobby. Later, they were so busy in life raising children and earning for their livelihoods that they never got the second chance to take another snap together in their life.

Twenty-two years had passed she had the vermilion in her forehead, a custom for married Hindu women as the sign of being married. A very long time, and now she wonders if she even recalled the sound of his voice. She went to her husband's room that was now used to store the bags of grains with a deep sigh looked upward towards the ceiling trying to remember what his voice was sounded like.

"Gauri" She heard a voice, coming from distant, humble and calm.

She opened her eyes and saw no one, it was her imaginary voice within her mind trying to imitate her late husband's call. She tried again but she was old now, and she couldn't fight anymore. She had to accept the bitter truth that she had forgotten his voice during these past years.

"Grandma, do you miss grandpa?" Her granddaughter asked while sitting next to her.

Gauri smiled and though she wanted to answer that question, ignorable she asked if the supper was ready as they have the remaining part of the bedtime story to complete.

She couldn't answer it then nor she could now, perhaps she didn't know the answer. The answer to remembering his vague face that she had so dearly loved but couldn't express those days as the love between husband and wife was not expressed in those times. But undoubtedly she loved him, she loved him then and she loves him now. She remembers all the memories she had with him, the days they use to spend on the bank of the rivers watching the sunset after all day's work. The little farmhouse of theirs where they made their first love on the full moon night. The blush they had on their face when their first child was born when she was twenty-one and her body characteristics gently catching the shape of a woman and a mother. Like every husband-wife relationship, they took fight but that was just for a moment and the next moment they were together. She loved all of that but time slips by and in her life too, the time had slipped from her hands.

She felt the guilt and ashamed of not knowing the answers. Of how she could forget her husband's face and voice, of the man who carried his love for her till his last breath.

Gauri went outside to the open space from her verandah, looked up to the sky full of stars, felt the cool breeze of that spring and letting it to calm her down.

The festive was so different then, the festive is so different now without him.

The End.

Thank you for reading!

The remaining parts of The Lost Painting and Father - My Patriot will be posted soon :)

I am razeiv,
Short stories writer, an art lover
from NorthEast, India.