Chapter 4 - Across the Street

Across the street, in a three-storey apartment a solitary bulb on the third floor helped Mrs. Banerjee tidy up her wardrobe. She took each crumpled piece of clothing, neatly folded it and kept it inside. Meenakshi watched her silently through her window, and felt secretly jealous of her relatively happy family life. Her husband snored sonorously on the bed, but Mrs. Banerjee felt comforted by its presence and thereby his. Meenakshi had visited the Banerjees a few times. Mrs. Banerjee had served her tea each time and spoken to her sweet English in a lovely rounded Bengali accent. Her little daughter, Maya, had big eyes that brimmed over with curiosity and delight each time she saw Meenakshi. Theirs was a small two-bedroom apartment, but then Mrs. Banerjee with her industry, creative eye and that special gene passed on to her by her mother, had made a lovely home from whatever was available to her.

The Mehtas, the Guptas, old Mrs. Fernandes also lived in the same apartments. But they were asleep at this late hour. In due course, even the solitary rebellious bulb yawned and promptly turned itself off. Meenakshi felt so alone. The picture of the apartment stood out in the moonlight and the lovely Banyan tree swayed its leaves as the wind blew across its face. From habit, she looked at her cell phone and put it back again. She felt she should lie down. But something inside her hurt so much that she couldn't lie down. Tears streamed down her face as she thought over and over again of what had happened that fateful night. Of what he had said and how she had replied. Of the look in his face, the tone of his voice, of the meaning of his words, and the reasons behind them – she remembered it vividly like she was still there, hearing the words being said to her, in slow motion, again and again.

A gust of wind blew the curtains, and they brushed against her face. A little paper on the bedside table rustled in the wind. The bedside lamp nonchalantly shed light on her crumpled bed. As if on cue, her cell phone beeped briefly and fell silent. He had sent her a curious, cryptic message that said “Why?” But even that mysterious “Why?” felt oddly like a sigh of relief to Meenakshi. She sobbed freely now, and thought of him again. She found a pen on the bedside table and on the paper she wrote –

“Why? I don’t know why. Why should I know why?
After all that’s been said, why do you ask me why?”

She crumpled the piece of paper, and flung it to the floor. She sat by the window again, and stared at the Banyan tree and the apartment on the other side. Why does the tree look like a hand stretched out heavenwards – she wondered.