Envelope
Posted on April 29, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |
The envelope lay on his table, with the other unopened correspondence. The corner that stuck out from between a couple of boring conventional brown ones was a delicate shade of pink. Curiosity made him pin the edge down with forefinger and slide it away from its less inviting companions. The address and his name were printed off a computer so he looked for a post-mark in the hope of getting some clue to the sender’s identity.
It had been mailed from Kandivili, a fact that brought an immediate feature-ageing frown to his face. Jerry was quite certain that he didn’t know anyone from that suburb,
Probably just some junk mail…
He stared at it even though its sheer appearance was incapable of telling him anything further. His name stared back. Jerry Machado. Not Mister Jerry Machado - just Jerry Machado.
Familiarity? Or the so called ‘personal touch’?
Either someone he knew had moved to Kandivili or this person had already earned a couple of negative points for omitting the respectful ‘Mister’ from the address. He scanned his desk’s dark, richly polished surface for the letter opener. It wasn’t visible so he went around, opened the drawer on the left and found it exactly where it always ended up after his order-obsessed secretary was done re-arranging his stuff.
He slipped the solid silver mermaid’s fin into the edge of the envelope and smoothly slit it open, dropped the mermaid back into the drawer and shook out the contents of the envelope.
The photograph slid onto the table and skittered across the polished surface before coming to rest near the edge. He peered inside the envelope, eyebrows drawn together and lips pursed in concentration. There was nothing else. He picked up the photograph, analog in a digital world, and looked at the little girl. A beautiful little girl.
Her hair framed her face in soft curls, not unlike the ones that often crown the heads of very young babies. Her eyes were expressive and shone with a light that couldn’t be faked by dark-room gimmickry. Her chubby hands were by her side and the dress she wore was very unlike the cloying sweet attire of most children. It made her look…
Almost ladylike…
He placed his hands on the desk, palms out, on either side of the photograph and hovered over it. She looked vaguely familiar but he was quite certain he hadn’t met the child before. He couldn’t associate the features with any of his friends’ so that ruled out the possibility of a proud father’s enthusiastic display of a beautiful child. When he shifted his weight slightly he could see his own reflection in the glossy surface. It created a bizarre optical illusion where his face seemed to blend with the one in the photograph.
He reared away and reached for the envelope, checked it again to confirm he hadn’t missed something.
Nothing.
So he checked the picture again.
The child looked vaguely defiant as she stood in front of what looked like a house. A few leaves and flowers had crept into the frame but it was her innocent beauty that dominated the picture as she squinted against the sun (or a flash). Her lips were stretched in a rubber-band smile that probably vanished the moment she’d heard the click of the camera. He walked over to the huge window that overlooked the sea and stared unseeingly at the pink, yellow and green plastic bags that bobbed up and down near the edge of the water. A gust of wind blew at him, causing him to blink in surprise. Questions kept popping up but a part of him realised that they weren’t the right ones. He returned to his desk and his heart skipped a beat when he saw that the picture was no longer on his desk. It had fallen off the table and flipped over so for the first time, he saw the blue writing on the impossibly white back of the photograph as he bent to pick it up. The electricity that was running through his arm was only partly caused by the feeling that the handwriting was familiar. ‘Partly’ because he knew he was feeling something else and whatever it was, that feeling wasn’t very nice.
He picked up the picture and stared at the words without actually reading them. The handwriting alone brought back a rush of memories so the meaning of the words refused to make an impact.
Smita’s handwriting had been, and still was, very distinctive. The big, round letters flowed into each other beautifully, making her “running hand” a special joy to read.
After all these years…
The memories lapped against him like waves or falling people scrabbling for grip. He had the urge to sit down but the words held him in place,
You probably don’t have the right to know but I’ve never been a good liar. This is Shefali. Your daughter. She’s seven years old.
Your daughter…
The words seeped in and bounced endlessly off the inner walls of his head.
My… daughter…
He turned the picture around and saw Smita’s eyes. He’d said so many flattering things about those eyes, there was no mistaking them.
Why didn’t she tell me!
His mind went back to that day and the stab of memory’s diamond-hard knife made it necessary for him to sit down. He slumped into the plush leather chair with his eyes closed and in his head, on the screens formed by his eyelids, he saw it play back like he had seen it all, so often, in the months after the break-up.
He had almost been chicken enough to tell her over the ‘phone but better sense had prevailed and he’d asked her to meet him. There was a happiness in her voice that hadn’t been something that he was used to hearing. They had been fighting almost every day for three weeks and the only peace had come from the days when they hadn’t spoken to each other at all. He remembered the exact spot at Chowpatty where he’d told her…how could he forget, he still felt a twinge of something every time he drove past the spot.
Even now! Nearly eight years later…
It had been a sunny day - the kind that always accompanies smiling faces and care-free attitudes, he felt neither as he waited by a scooter. He was squinting against the brightness that hung over everything around him, spitefully wishing the sun would be swallowed whole by a cloud. He thought he was early so he didn’t see her come up behind him. He was startled by the kiss she planted in his hair and the smile she wore was comparable to her best.
The discomfort of those moments washed over him again and he shuddered as he remembered the way her expression had changed when he said his piece, “I can’t go on like this any more. You used to bring out the best in me…and now I can only function when I’m not with you. You made it worthwhile for me to wake up in the morning, now I dread the days when I have to see you. We always fight and then I feel like shit.”
Her eyes had become moist at that last statement but she’d stood still and made no move to wipe her eyes, “We can try to make things better…”
“No Smita, I’m tired of trying! I’m tired of you getting angry with me. I’m tired of getting angry at you. I just want peace.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.”
‘Meaning?”
“Nothing?”
“Meaning what!”
“Nothing!”
“I heard that. Are we okay?”
“What do you think”
“I still love you…”
“Then why do you get mad at me all the time?”
The wall of tears had grown thicker yet not a single one escaped over the rim of her eyelids…
“So what do you want to do?”
“It’s over Smita. I can’t take it any more. “
She took one step back and the sun seemed to glint directly off the moisture in her eyes. He remembered thinking that it was the last time her eyes would shine for him. They looked at each other in silence and then she walked away. He watched her go until she disappeared from sight he didn’t see her lift a hand (even once) to wipe her eyes. Moments after she disappeared from view he wanted to take it all back. He ran after her but she was nowhere in sight.
He cringed at the memory of the blank calls he’d made to her house…she hadn’t answered the phone even once. He’d staked out the gate of her building for weeks but there was no sign of her. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her again, until this…
He looked at the photograph through the film of tears that were threatening to drown his eyes and ran a finger over the little girl’s hair.
Daddy’s sorry…very sorry. I didn’t know…I’m so sorry.
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