A Weathered Life

A single text, just two letters - 'hi' - from an unknown number, left me feeling bewildered. The message was cryptic, but the familiarity of the sender's display picture stirred a mix of emotions within me. It was a name I thought I'd never see again, a name that belonged to my best friend, my confidant, the love of my life. Seven years of silence, and now, this abrupt reappearance. I hesitated for six hours before responding with a simple 'Tell me'.

His response was immediate, a phone call that caught me off guard. His voice was curt, lacking the warmth I once knew. 'Let's meet,' he said, his tone detached. 'I'll be waiting at 4th Avenue McD at 5 pm.' The familiarity of his voice was jarring, a stark contrast to the stranger he'd become. What had changed, what had brought him back into my life after all these years?

I arrived at the café early, a habit that had remained constant despite the years. As I waited, I felt a sense of comfort in this small act of punctuality, a reminder that some parts of me remained constant, even as the world around me had shifted dramatically. 

While sipping my coffee,I was eavesdropping on the conversation of two strangers beside me. Their hushed tones spoke of love and sacrifice, of finding ways to succeed in their path of love. I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease on hearing the word ‘love’.. 

The wind outside raged like a restless beast, its fury echoing the chaos that churned within me as I awaited his arrival. Memories of our past swirled in my mind like the wind and rain lashing against the café windows. I thought of the storm that had ravaged Chennai, which once had cut off all communication when I was in England and he went to India, leaving me feeling lost and abandoned. The same storm that had marked the beginning of our end. 

I finished my coffee and saw him near the door. As he entered, I was struck by the changes time had etched on his face. The lean, fit physique I once knew had given way to softer, rounder edges. Is he even 6’2”? the current stature before me made me question the details of his physical appearance in my mind. and his smile, though still warm, no longer had the power to stir my heart. I couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment, a feeling that this person, though familiar, was now a stranger.

He sat down across from me in the cafe, his eyes scanned my face, and he complimented my looks, almost as if he was surprised by my timeless beauty. I felt grateful that age and nature had been kind to me, allowing me to retain a radiant glow that finally caught his attention. His words, laced with a hint of admiration, gave me an unexpected sense of confidence as if I held an upper hand in this reunion. I leaned in, intrigued, ready to utilize this moment to question him for his past actions, but also aware of the fragile balance of power in our encounter. The storm outside seemed to fade into the background feeling a sense of triumph over time itself. 

"Why did you vanish after promising to secure your parents' blessing for our marriage?" I asked, his silence betraying his surprise that I'd recall the painful memory of that moment when he shattered me with a phone call to inform me of his wedding to another woman, 45 days after his journey to India.  He finally spoke, his words piercing like a dagger: "I was selfish, prioritizing the wealthy, young woman my parents selected over you. She excelled on paper." I pressed on, "What led to your divorce with her?" He looked taken aback, clearly not expecting me to be so well-informed about his life. And his response was callous: "She wasn’t good in bed, had a loud voice, and an independent spirit." The phrase "good in bed" echoed in my mind, stirring up buried memories. I retorted, "Good for her." With that, I rose to leave the café, grateful I was no't the one he'd married. 

As I left the café, the storm intensified, its rain pounding against the windows like restless spirits. I shivered realising the sharp contrast between the strangers conversation versus his,  feeling the tempest stir up memories I'd rather forget - memories of a fateful night seven years ago when my world crumbled. I couldn't help but smile wryly, thinking he once called me 'damaged goods,' and now he's a divorcee, a 'damaged good' himself. Standing alone, I knew he wouldn't come for me; his ego surpassed my resilience. He was the man who left his wife for not becoming a tool something at one point I was willing to, and I felt a pang of discomfort, like a door creaking open to reveal a hidden truth. I envied her strength, wishing I possessed the same courage. Strength has never been my defining characteristic. 

I couldn't help but reflect on my past standing there. At 23, My first marriage had been a mere formality, a union of two strangers bound by duty rather than love. When it ended, I was left shattered and freezing, unsure of how to navigate the world. Running became my survival tactic, a way to escape the sympathetic glances and whispered condolences that seemed to suffocate me. I ran from the memories of a loveless marriage, from the pain of losing someone I had never truly known. I ran from the men who saw me as a conquest, a vulnerable widow to be won over with false promises and empty words. But no matter how far I ran, I couldn't escape the weight of my label: a virgin widow. The running eventually took its toll, leaving me exhausted and numb. Yet, I continued to run, searching for a fleeting sense of freedom from the suffocating expectations of society. But I knew I couldn't keep running forever. 

As a widow, I didn’t feel any pain, I didn't want anyone's sympathy. The truth was, I felt numb. My life was forever changed by the storm that struck on my wedding day and again three months later, when I faced the devastating reality of my husband's lifeless body. The words "my husband" now felt like a hollow echo. I had forgotten him, except for the haunting image of his body shrouded in white. As a widow, I was forced to hide behind this label, avoiding social gatherings and temples, seeking refuge in my introversion and books. But this solace was short-lived, as I soon found myself prey to men's leering eyes, unaware of their intentions. I was naive, even stupid, for not recognizing the meaning behind their gaze. The label "virgin widow" had a certain ring to it, but it didn't last long. I was soon fleeing from married men's lies, false promises, and fake tears. I kept running, changing offices, houses, cities, and countries, trying to escape their grasping hands and leering eyes. But no matter how far I ran, the memories lingered, leaving me frozen in fear.

Eventually, I knew I had to forge a new path in a society that seemed determined to define me by my past. With a deep breath, I began walking towards an uncertain future, one step at a time, determined to reclaim my life. I found solace in the presence of a dear friend, who lived far away but understood me like no one else. He was the one who always liked me, always made time for me, and was then waiting for me in a new country when I was 24.

The first week passed uneventfully until he arrived, and his idea of "getting me settled" was far from what I had expected. As he stepped off the train for which I had been waiting for more than an hour, his warm smile lit up the gloomy day, and as his arms enveloped me, the sound of his warm "Hellooo" was still on its way to my ears, but the familiarity of his embrace had already transported me back to my teenage years. The warmth and heartbeat I felt were like a déjà vu, reminding me of a time when life was simpler. I was astonished by how vividly I remembered the smallest details about him - the new perfume he wore, the absence of sweat on his skin. The rain pouring down like cats and dogs, seemed to depict the distress in my heart, yet his presence brought a sense of calm. Just as the storm had followed me from my past, he had brought a sense of continuity to my new life. His style and dressing had evolved, but his words and smile remained unchanged, a comforting constant amidst the uncertainty. As we stood there, the storm raging on, I felt a sense of belonging, of being exactly where I was meant to be.

We found ourselves lost in conversation, the chatterbox in him was unleashed, and I devoured every word said like a starving soul. Before we knew it, dinner time had arrived, and my growling stomach betrayed me. He took me to a nearby restaurant, introducing me to the vibrant nightlife, explaining the nuances of pubs and bars, and the names of various alcohols. I watched, mesmerized, as he carefreely danced and fueled his body with drinks. His persistence eventually won me over, and I tried one, thinking it wouldn't hurt. But I was wrong. The night became a blur, and we returned home with full hearts and bellies. In my new room, he searched for a place to sleep, his eyes settling on the single bed. I invited him to sleep next to me, a familiar arrangement from our college days. As we lay there, the lights still on, I felt a deep sense of love and nostalgia wash over me. Memories of our years of friendship, phone conversations, and chats flooded my mind. I wanted to confess my feelings, but fear and doubt held me back. I tried to speak, but my voice failed me. And then, his hands moved up my dress, between my thighs, leaving me shocked and speechless. The storm outside seemed to pale in comparison to the commotion brewing within me.

As his fingers brushed against my thighs, I thought he didn't realize what he was doing as I moved it off with my hands. But when they moved again, I knew I had to act. I pulled the blanket to distract him, thinking that's what his drunken fingers were searching for. But he pushed it away and his hands slid up my dress, reaching for my tummy tucker. I wasn't used to wearing dresses, and the unfamiliar sensation of his touch made me uneasy. His fingers encountered resistance, and his hands became more insistent, pulling up my dress to remove the tummy tucker. I slapped his hand, but it was no use. His urgency grew, and I feared he would tear the expensive garment. I couldn't speak, and my mind raced with questions. Why was he so concerned about me changing and going to bed? Couldn't I take care of myself? But before I could process my thoughts, the tummy tucker was gone, and his hands had reached my panties. 

The sensation was like a jarring slap, jolting me back to reality. Was he really attempting what I thought he was? It couldn't be, we hadn't even shared a kiss yet. This felt nothing like the romantic encounters I had dreamed of for months. I uttered a faint "No", my voice barely recognizable, low and alien to my own ears. I repeated it, "No", again and again, my hands pushing him away with growing desperation. My legs began to flail, and I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. This couldn't be happening. But he misinterpreted my laughter as an invitation, his approach becoming more aggressive. His hands roamed my body in ways I didn't want, and I struggled to resist. But eventually, I went limp, my energy spent, and I gave up. The storm remained, a silent witness to the violation.

In a twisted attempt to rationalize the situation, I thought to myself that I loved him and would eventually give in, so why resist now? But as I lay there, still wearing my dress but with my panties off, and him with his shirt on but pants and underwear off, I couldn't help but contrast this harsh reality with my cherished dreams. There was no tender gaze, no soft smile, no loving hug, no gentle caress. Instead, I felt his strong arms pinning me down, his nails digging into my skin, and his clumsy thrusts causing pain. The kiss that followed was brutal, like being pressed against a hot railway track, leaving me wondering if I tasted my own blood. I cried out, not just from the pain in my lips, but from the searing agony in my other lips as he finally found his way. The darkness of the night seemed to close in, and the storm's presence became a strange sort of comfort, a companion to me that moment as it was for million other women across the globe experiencing the a similar unsettling encounter.

No gentle hands asked for permission, no soft words reassured me. My breasts were ignored, my legs stiffened in resistance, but it only made the pain worse. I opened my eyes to tears, met with a face I didn't recognize - a monster devoid of the smile I once knew.  The eyes looked lost and far away. I realised there was no hope. I gave up my fight and lay like a dead with my feet spread and slightly turned away from each other, my arms apart with palms facing the sky. I felt like the Jesus on the bed bleeding from a different hole when I let him finish. 

Then there was silence from his body on me, his senses and my life. Had the storm given up on me or my sense of hearing, I wasn’t sure. As I lay there, I wondered if my regular soap could erase the shame and pain, or if I needed something stronger, like toilet acid. But I wasn't even sure if that was available in this country. I felt paralyzed, unsure of anything anymore. With a Herculean effort, I pushed him off me and I turned to face him, lying motionless on the bed, waiting for him to wake up. I hadn't slept a wink, my eyes fixed on him. Finally, around 10AM, his lifeless body stirred. I longed to hear an explanation, an apology, or some semblance of remorse, but it never came. The silence was deafening, leaving me with only my thoughts and the ache within me but at-least the storm was back to keep me company. 

The smile I once knew had returned, and the monster that had taken over his face was gone. I didn't flee or become paralyzed with fear. Instead, I learned to cope with the trauma. I forced a smile, but it felt like a mere twitch. I rose from the bed, feeling lifeless, and decided to take things one step at a time - first, I'd clean my body, then my soul. But every step felt like agony, and I couldn't pinpoint the source of the pain. It was as if I'd been pierced by a thousand sharp knives, leaving me mute and tearless. I stopped, gazed up at the light, and froze, deciding to numb myself to all emotions, thoughts, and sensations. The pain eventually dulled, and I went blank. I took the longed-for bath, but didn't bother to clean myself, feeling like I'd lost my soul down the drain. I emerged and told him "I love you", but he didn't reciprocate. He hugged me and promised to marry me, then left for India the next day while I had continued to love and yearn for the smiling face I once knew, trapped in a cycle of pain and heartache.

As I stumbled back to the McD entrance, buffeted by the storm and surrounded by chaos, I gazed up at the sky and wondered, 'Are you really that fierce?' Yet, despite my longstanding aversion to storms, this one had become an unlikely ally, teaching me to find hope amidst the disorder. It stood by me through my darkest moments and held me back when I thought of begging him to marry me, whispering words of self-worth and resilience. Today, the storm has returned, bringing closure and a newfound understanding. Was it telling me that I'm not a damaged good, but strong and capable human? The storm swished to say Yes. I am not broken but he is, I realised. And with this knowledge, I began to move forward, as the downpour had no need to wash away my past, for I had finally found the strength to leave it behind. I knew I had found my liberation. The tempest that once reflected my inner turmoil now symbolized my strength, a reminder that I was no longer a victim, but a survivor.