Such stories never end..!
yesterday. She opened bathroom
door. He lay dead inside. She called me, her voice hysterical. They had, had a drink the night before, and another and another and another, and he already with liver ailment had staggered to cloak and she to bed. It was not a bed she belonged to. She was not his wife. The wife had left years ago, when the battle twixt liquor bottle and her had been won by the Bottle..! Many years ago he had been my closest friend and the only friend I had in a big city. On his old faithful two wheeler with red hawk painted on fuel tank we rode the roads and painted town a lively crimson. But in the night the bottle.
There were many demons he tried to chase away with the spirits inside glass container. “Bob,” he cried to me once in agony, “she left us when I was ten, my brother eight and little sis’ five. Our father brought us up ,while she gallivanted with young air force pilot.” I met her many years later, a painted lady who still clung onto man ten years her junior. I saw him cringe as he looked at her acting like cheap floozie. I heard his cry for a mother who left for the pleasures of life. Three children, motherless.
The younger brother died, I heard three years ago. The mother came for funeral and wept for her little boy. My friend’s own marriage never worked. Two children came out of unhappy wedlock. They watched a loving father by day become a tyrant at night. “For your children’s sake,” his wife appealed. He looked at children but with twelve year child like eyes that could not see beyond own forsaken childhood. “Don’t let the past break your present and their future,” I told him as we sat together, the three of us, his desperate wife pleading along with me. But he was too emotionally weak and drained to even try.
I will not go for the funeral. I know who will be there. A mother weeping for her son. She wept for the other three years ago. I do not want to stand with her and weep for friend who cried throughout for same woman who now sheds tears for him, too late. She had left the house one morning and walked away with smart man in pilots uniform. I can hear a hundred voices saying. “It’s her life!” I can hear the romantics yelling, “Love is blind..!” and others muttering , “she left him for a better man..!” I can only place before you; three children whimpering that morning when they saw their mother gone. Can you hear with me a death knell ringing when fathers abandon homes or mothers their children?
If perchance this piece is read by some one among you who looks with delight at some Brad Pitt in the office or at sweet smelling pony tail. Think again my friend. Some children never recover. The call from the college hostel warden this morning said it all. “She came back drunk last night, “ the warden said to me. “She cries for her father..!” His child! The nightmare begins once again. Such stories never end, so why start them?