Dream Come True
She stands at the threshold of the house – the same house where she had been ushered into as a bride four years ago. She had walked through those doors the first time wearing a red sari, to a warm welcome with flowers. And today, she is standing again at that threshold. Except that this time she faces the world outside, embracing the morning sun.
After a long time she is wearing that same smile. Except that this is the smile of revenge.
After a long time, she is wearing red. Except that this red is an uneven streak of blood, on an originally white kurta. She turns slowly and examines the living room. Untidy as usual, there are two things in particular that catch her attention. One is the glass table which had shattered during the struggle that morning. It was a beautiful table that was one of the many gifts she had received from her father at her wedding. It’s broken state pained her. But it was overpowered soon at the sight of the second object. Her lips curled into a smile again as she closely examined the dark red marks on the crimson carpet. It was one of the rare things that had given her some gratification in a very long time.
Who knew she could have summoned all her strength to commit such a heinous crime? Who would have thought that the source of her delight would come from such an abhorrent sight? She knew. She knew the answers to these questions so well. And she was so happy now that she knew that there would be no more questions.
She shuts the door and draws the curtains and sits on the armchair in the dim sunlight. The creaking of the armchair is the only sound that fills the room but doesn’t reach her preoccupied mind. She heaves a deep sigh of relief as she finally turns to observe the most wondrous piece of art she’d created in a long time – the dead body that lay on the floor – numb, cold, not moving. Her eyes darted from the scratches on the cheeks, the disheveled hair, the smears of thick blood on the neck, arms and face, to finally the deep stab in the chest. For the first time in four years she admired the handsome features of the corpse and almost felt sad for him, her husband.
He was a husband to her for the world. But she so wished she could scream out loud to the same world about what he really was. A monster, who had made a monster out of her, who could have never dreamt of doing something like this. How she wished to say that she’d just avenged all those years of abuse and violence in just one act. There was no moral dilemma that clouded her. She didn’t care if the world perceived her as a frustrated, psychopathic woman who had murdered her husband in a fit of rage. Or perhaps the law would ask why she hadn’t filed a complaint for violence during the marriage.
But who would understand what it was like to be locked up in a room like an animal and survive on bread crumbs and a thin soup. Who would understand why she cried herself to sleep every night? Who would understand what atrocities had preceded the unbuckling of his belt? And who would understand that the thrashing belt felt a thousand times better to her than when it lay motionless among the pile of his remaining clothes?
She goes back and sits heavily on the armchair. Finally coming to terms with what she had done, she ponders over the consequences. It dawns upon her now that she will be behind bars. She knew perfectly well that in order to escape one cage, she’d unlocked the door to another. She didn’t care much about the consequences of her actions. After all, if she’d escaped one hell, why couldn’t she escape another? After all, how hard could it be to stab oneself fatally too? She only hoped that God had created one hell for rapists and molesters and a separate one for murders and suicides.
But for now she sits on the armchair, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, listening to its constant creaking sound that now pierces through the eerie silence, staring at the ceiling above her, reveling in the joy of the dream come true.
Shruti Sharma | Edited by Farrokh sir