He cried to me that night.
He begged me for mercy and he cried to me that night.
He told me he was helpless, that he couldn’t ever forget her, that he was forever hers, that her name was etched in his every cell and in every second of his existence, that he was sorry for dragging me into his severely complicated world, that he knew I could never forgive him. And he cried to me that night.
It was my first night with him, our first night together, our wedding night, and he cried to me that night.
She had been beautiful – beautiful beyond measure. I could say that even though her face was hidden in the burqa. All that was visible of her, were her eyes. And even in the faded print of the photograph, I could say there was something mystical about them; her eyes were mirrors reflecting a hidden universe, teleporters to another dimension.
He had told me it had been 5 years since she had died in the riots – a simple girl, on her way back home from the mosque. They had stopped her and killed her – burnt her alive. Because she was a Muslim. And for him, they had stopped time and buried him alive. Because he had loved her, because their love had known no religion.
He had told me they were just two innocent fools, underestimating the power of the society; they were just two small sacrifices to the seething rivalry between Krishna and Allah.
So he buried his face in my neck and cried to me that night. And somewhere amidst the sobs, our eyes met. And somewhere between all that was said and all that was left unsaid, my eyes glazed.
Who were we in the first place? Who were we expected to be? Husband and wife? Soul-mates? Lovers? We were just two more broken bottles in a sea of trash, just two minor gashes in a society that had bled millions, just two glass shards waiting to melt into one if the sun ever shone bright enough. But would it?
Somewhere between the tears and the entwined fingers, somewhere between what we had clung on to and what we had let go, somewhere between falling out of love and learning to love again, somewhere between what was destined for that night and what was expected of us that night, we fell asleep tired and torn, his head still resting on my neck, his fingers still clasping mine, his throbbing pain still swimming in my eyes, his tears still flooding my bloodstream.
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