MURMURS IN THE AIR - A SHORT STORY
“The saviour,” said someone else.
They said he had turned immortal. He will return like a phoenix in his next life, reported the Daily Tales newspaper. He was brave and brutal for a few, and a hero for many. But for me, he was my Shree—my soulmate, my better half. I lost him in the summer of 2022, in the crossfire that happened near his camp, when he was attending to his wounded friend.
The day the nation mourned his death, the sky wept with me. It was shades of grey everywhere since the colour that brightened my life had disappeared. They let us touch him one last time before bidding him farewell. I sat by his side the whole time, grieving in silence as the officials offered their condolences. His belongings were packed neatly in a parcel and promptly returned to me just after we laid him to rest, six feet beneath the ground.
It all felt like a dream. I had never imagined it would end this way. We met during our undergraduate days. We were in the same batch and were dissection hall partners. We clicked instantly, despite being polar opposites. Though I wanted a stable 9-to-5 career, his devotion to serving the nation made him even more attractive. I knew in that very instant when he opened up about his ambition to join the armed forces that I loved him. The passion with which he spoke convinced me that we were meant to be.
But now, it is all a blur. My best friend of twelve years and a lifetime of memories had disintegrated into nothingness in a single second. But we always knew this could happen someday. Shree often joked that he would be the first one to die among us. The thought of dying never bothered him much. He was always ready for it, leaving me in the backseat. But that didn't make me sad. Never. Instead, I was only proud of his conviction. I was mesmerised by his dedication until reality struck.
“Aditi, you should also choose someone else after I am gone, just like how I choose my duty over you every time,” he said once.
“Hush, you idiot. It's not auspicious to say such things first thing on a Friday morning,” I warned him.
“But you know that I am not wrong. And how does it matter if it's Friday or Sunday for a soldier? We are destined to die anyway.”
“Shut up, Shree. You are being nutty.” I shook my head dismissively. Unheeding, he mumbled something to himself before picking up the phone.
“I need to leave. But you should think about what I said.” He held the door handle tight as he looked back at me before disappearing into the hallway. Sensing the urgency in his voice, I let him go without a fight.
He returned that evening with news that shattered me. He had to leave. Immediately. For the camp. Those were words I always dreaded when Shree was still by my side. I really believed he would return like every other time. But this time, he didn't.
I know Shree must have been proud when he last breathed. He must have thought of me, too, wishing me a promising future. But he had no idea where he was leaving me behind. He probably thought the world was a kind place where everyone could live peacefully. He was too innocent for the times he lived in. Little did he know that a martyr's widow would never be tolerated as another man's wife in this lifetime.
*
I met Harsh six months ago. I was distraught after Shree's passing, drowning in a sea of loneliness. The nation mourned for as long as the media did. Neighbours and well-wishers wept for a few weeks. His parents and siblings learned to live with the pain, sheltered in the nest they had built together. My in-laws returned to their daughter, who had settled in the US, but I insisted on staying in the house Shree and I had shared. And after that, people returned to their lives—birthdays, housewarmings, engagements, weddings, naming ceremonies and so on. The world moved on. I was left behind. Harsh came just in time to save me from the loneliness that was consuming me.
“Chin up, lady. You are the widow of a martyr. Carry it with pride,” Harsh had commented on my Instagram post. I was seen receiving the honorary medal on Shree’s behalf. It was the proudest day of my life as I held Shree's dream in my hands. However, the internet was divided over who should have received it—Shree's parents or me. Some said I was cruel for not letting them be at the forefront. But my in-laws didn't mind. There was no feud. In fact, we loved each other because we loved Shree. Love.
But soon, I was painted as a selfish gold-digger. The same people who once called me an ideal wife now call me a bloodthirsty leech.
And when I posted a picture of Harsh and me visiting my late husband's grave with his medal last month, all hell broke loose.
“How could you, you whore…” one comment read.
“It hasn't even been two years since your husband died and you're already dating? What a bitch!” wrote another anonymous user.
“Probably she was already having an affair. Maybe the man preferred dying over living with her. Women!”
I was facing a media trial. People I didn't even know were judging me. I spiralled into depression. I started hating myself, even wondering if they were right. I stopped meeting anyone until Harsh showed up at my door again.
“You can't do this to yourself, Aditi. We are getting married in a month.” He held my hand and led me inside. He deactivated my social media accounts and told me that was the only way forward—at least until things calmed down. I sobbed against his chest and assured him I would be fine soon. He didn't want to leave, but I insisted. I was better than before.
*
A few days passed, and suddenly, there was silence. It was as if the world had shunned me. Harsh was busy with our wedding arrangements. The silence was more frightening than the noise that came before. I wanted someone to hold me again and tell me it would be fine soon. But why was I seeking validation from a world that sidelined me after Shree's death? I will never know. Still, the silence was unnerving. I expected a reaction—even anger—if not an apology.
I was alone again. I reactivated my account and scrolled through the merciless comments from nameless, faceless profiles. I noticed that most had either a grey outline or a celebrity’s photo as their display picture. I remembered what Shree once said when I asked why he chose to serve such people over me.
“Why are you so obsessed with your work, Shree? You cancel our plans last minute for your work. I have never been your first choice ever. Do you realise you have never even seen these people you are fighting for? And neither do they know about your sacrifice.” I asked, intrigued when he skipped our anniversary dinner.
“These faceless people are the ones that keep me going, Aditi. They are the ones who need me. Us. You will always be safe. They will be the ones who save you, too, especially when I am gone.” He had promised.
I burst into tears. He wouldn't have let me live through this if he had known.
*
This is a part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon
#penbooksandscalpel
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