Time to Move On: Short Story

At Hariharan’s marriage this time, his dead first wife was the proverbial elephant in the room.

Isn’t that what you call someone or something that no one talks about, but everyone is thinking of? Everyone in attendance sensed Sumangala by her absence. She was still on everyone’s lips. And if not, she was on everyone’s minds. Most of all, her old father’s.

It was inevitable. It had been less than a year since she had passed away. The memories hadn’t faded. Her father had not even yet fully come to terms with it.

How could he? Memories of that accident still haunted him. Losing his daughter out of the blue in the prime of her youth wasn’t easy. Why my daughter? He had cried his heart out in anguish and in pain for almost a month after she left.

Yet after that, he had repeatedly told his mind that there was no other way but to reconcile with it. Perhaps, it was God who had willed that Sumangala leave this world without warning, he consoled his broken heart. He often questioned if it was God’s will that she leave behind a daughter of five years who didn’t quite understand where her mother had gone.

It perplexed him that another woman was going to take Sumangala’s place in the lives of Hariharan and his daughter. But everyone told him it was inevitable. It was time to move on. He had resigned himself to it. In fact, to start with, he himself had felt it was the right thing to do.

After all, Hariharan’s entire life and that of his daughter lay ahead of them. It was impossible, and perhaps unfair too, to expect them to live it all alone, they said. Time will do what it will, you have to do what you can, they advised him.

Even as he stared at the blazing fire at the marriage altar that the priests fed with ghee, he felt the heat burn within himself. He felt his heart palpitate faster, and a few drops of sweat fell from his brow. He took a deep breath and felt his shirt and trouser pockets. He checked that the bag he was carrying had everything he needed for the marriage rituals.

The colours of the garlands waiting to adorn the bride and the groom reminded him of Sumangala’s pink cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes when he had handed her over in marriage to Hariharan. The incense sticks and the meandering sweetness of their fragrance filled his mind with memories of his own daughter’s bridal deck. But that was ten years back.

“It’s time,” the priest called out Sumangala’s father. “Ask the bride to come.”

He didn’t move, still staring at the marriage arrangements. Everyone looked at him, but he didn’t realise it.

“Aren’t you the bride’s father?” the priest raised his voice. “Please get the bride,” he repeated his order. It shook Sumangala’s father out of his trance.

“Yes sir, I will get her,” he mumbled and started walking.

He went in teary eyed to get the bride.

While he walked to her chamber, his mind went back again to his own daughter’s marriage. He had walked this path before. He had done the ritual considered to be a father’s duty with all his heart the first time ten years back with Sumangala’s hand in his hand. He was going to do that again today.

He had graciously agreed to do the ritual of kanyadaan again in the wedding today.

“So what if the poor girl doesn’t have parents? I might as well do it,” he had told Hariharan when he had told him about his chosen bride a few months back.

It was for the second time that Sumangala’s father was doing this ritual with Hariharan as the groom. Perhaps, it was his destiny, he told himself.

When he saw the bride, he hurriedly wiped his eyes. He decided to hold back his tears.

Everyone said it was time to put the past behind. Everyone had told him that it was time to move forward. Everyone said this was the right thing to do. For the sake of his granddaughter. For the sake of his son in law. And for the sake of the new bride.

He told himself the same thing. “Time to move on,” he murmured as he entered the bridal chamber.

He walked towards her and got the bride outside, all decked up. He slowly guided her to her place in the wedding ritual. The priest started chanting the mantras with redoubled enthusiasm on seeing the bride.

“Shubha Mangal Savdhan,” the mantras started.

Sumangala’s father wiped his tears again. They weren’t stopping however hard he tried. His granddaughter stood next to him holding his hand. The missing hand in her other hand was that of his daughter Sumangala. He could feel her presence there.

But this time he sensed that she thanked him for setting things right. She knew he was doing the right thing. He knew it too. He wondered if his granddaughter would ever understand it. He knew she wouldn’t.

For once his mind wavered. Was he doing the right thing? it asked him. He focused his mind back on the wedding rituals. He told his mind this was the right thing to do.

But his mind went back to his conversations with Hariharan over the past year.

It was almost a year back, a few weeks after Sumangala had passed away that, on someone’s suggestion, he had touched upon the topic of remarriage with Hariharan.

“No Papa. I am not marrying again. It’s Sumangala only for me. I cannot live with anyone else,” Hariharan had protested vociferously.

“But Hari, Sumangala has gone. God has taken her away from you, from me, from us, from her innocent daughter. How can you be stubborn with God?” he had tried to pacify Hariharan.

“But how could He? Doesn’t He have the slightest sympathy? Why her? Why this way?” Hariharan had cried in his arms. He had stolen a glance at Sumangala’s smiling picture on the wall from the corner of his eye.

The emotion of grief was still too fresh, Sumangala’s father gathered. But it had to be mended soon before it solidified, some relatives told him. He had to find a way through the cracks before there was no place for anyone else to enter, they tried to convince him. Sumangala’s father felt that, perhaps, they were right.

“He definitely has other plans for you. He will send someone else. You have to trust God’s will,” he reassured Hariharan.

“If that is God’s will, so be it. But don’t force someone else down my throat.” Hariharan, always a decent son in law, had politely pleaded.

“I am not forcing someone down your throat. You choose. But choose you must. Please do it fast. Think of your daughter. She needs a mother. Don’t let time pass lest she remember her childhood trauma.”

There was a pause. Hariharan had stared into the blank future ahead of him then.

“Let me think about it,” he had said and walked away. Sumangala’s father was pleased then thinking that there opened a gap within the cracks. But he hadn’t missed the sly smile on the face of Hariharan as his right lip curled. He had wondered why.

From that day to today was some journey in which Sumangala’s father had covered a lot of ground and also uncovered some. But there was some satisfaction he felt, if he may call it so, that it was all going to end today, after all.

For good or bad, his daughter’s soul would rest in peace, he felt. Hari would get a new life. God took care of everyone, he felt within himself. He felt his trouser pocket again. He was nervous. He hoped everything went off well.

It was a small ceremony with close family and friends. They had called less than twenty people. To that, he had agreed with Hariharan. No one makes a big fuss about remarriage, Hariharan had said. But for the bride? For her, wasn’t it the first time? Sumangala’s father had asked.

“I will convince her. She should be OK. She doesn’t have many relatives anyway. Her parents died in an accident a few years back,” Hariharan told him.

The mantras got over. The muhurtham was almost there. The priests checked their watches and started the final lap of chanting in full gusto. The tempo filled everyone’s minds with anticipation. Everyone stood up for the moment to arrive.

In two minutes, the drums and the Shehnai started. Hariharan put the garland in his bride’s neck. The bride put the garland in Hariharan’s neck.

In the midst of the clapping noise, Sumangala’s father wiped the tears from his eyes again. He wasn’t sure whether they were tears of joy or sorrow. Time will tell, he felt. His granddaughter jumped and danced to the tune of the drums. A fresh beginning had been made.

And in all the commotion, Hariharan and his bride exchanged furtive glances. Both of them had a mild smile on their faces. They couldn’t express their glee enough though. The real celebration would have to wait. For a few months, perhaps. Or for even longer? they wondered.

But for now, they felt that the job was done. This was the final step in the dream that had taken birth in their bosoms over a year and a half back.

What else does one do when your old beloved, your childhood sweetheart you had taken for dead springs back into your life? From that moment itself eighteen months back, there was no doubt in both their minds about what was needed. They had always shared a perfect wavelength, an uncommon bond. They had always been a made for each other couple.

It was a job well done. No one suspected anything. So what if they had to wait this long for this? They now looked forward to a lifetime of togetherness. Without Sumangala.

It was time to celebrate. Their smiles couldn’t be hidden anymore. Both of them had ear to ear grins on their faces now.

No one missed it, least of all, Sumangala’s father. And that was the last straw he needed. It confirmed something he had always suspected. His blood boiled. He knew the time had come.

He pulled the revolver out of his trouser pocket and fired four shots first. Two shots each. And then, one more. He could see Sumangala smile in heaven.

***

This story was first published in the Indian Periodical. You may also read it here.