The Yaw Turn

The sun shone with a steely staleness, as if unwilling to share its warmth with the greedy people of earth. The opalescent snow seemed to extend unto limitless regions, engulfing all life and hues. The stoic pine trees were mere spectators to the gloom that hung about in the air. And amidst all the white that flooded the surrounding, two entities were starkly visible from afar; more so due to the narrow crimson stream that snaked its way out of one of them. He couldn’t stop the blood from gushing out of Abhay, no matter what he tried – his makeshift tourniquet had surrendered long back. He couldn’t bear to look into those pained eyes, as they pleaded for death’s mercy. No, he couldn’t let his friend die – they had too much left to do; heroism to be boasted, the beauty of Kashmir to be shared and more fights to be won. In those barren dead woods his moans mocked the plight of the unknown martyrs. He didn’t care what he would have to endure to restore his friend – he’d go to any lengths.

A blizzard was starting up – gradually Abhay’s voice was fading in the snowstorms. He urged with all his might that he be left behind – the stupid altruist. He didn’t want to, he couldn’t. The Academy had taught them harsh survival tactics, the burden of tough decisions. No… he couldn’t think of such absurd notions right now. He’d perish too, if need be it, but he couldn’t bear the responsibility of someone else’s life.

The sun had disappeared completely – he could hardly make out his friend’s handsome laughing face anymore. And then his courage failed. The pain in his injured leg was nearing unbearable limits – he was hungry, fatigued and deserted with a would-be corpse and wild animals. None would ever locate their whereabouts – they could be within miles of the regiment and yet they could easily go unnoticed. If he didn’t survive today the regiment would never know who, amongst them, the mole was all along; Abhay’s sacrifice would be in vain and they’d just be two nameless soldiers who died for a common cause.

He sighed. How do you bring about the courage to leave behind one of your best friends in his last moments? How do you manage to muster up enough selfishness to rescue just your life and and not look back on the one soul who would make you laugh over your own perils? Abhay’s faint jagged breath was still audible. He wanted to shut it out; he stood up and squinted about in the darkness for some non-existent hope. He took a step forward gingerly, and then another. He heard a tranquil sigh. He didn’t stop walking; he was afraid to try and make out his friend’s last breaths. He crushed his guilt and shame into that small box inside his heart which hid so many of his fears.

It was a new day, laden with the heaviness that only betrayal could bestow. He cursed each step that he took. The night long journey had drained every ounce of his life force. He wished with all bitterness that his heart would just stop beating. Tears of self-loathing streamed down his weak eyes – he could hardly make out the smoke curling out of a chimney at the end of the barren road as it turned blindly and continued inexhaustibly. But there it was, like the gingerbread cottage to Hansel and Gretel, a little house snuggled amid the cold heartless frost. He didn’t even deign to look at where the other road of the crossing led. Trudging along, he could somehow drag himself up to the front door, but he couldn’t reach the bell. He slumped near the door with a sick thud.

The flurry of noises outside caught the sharp ears of Mrs. Rathod. She looked up from her cooking soup and turned towards the door. Every sound bore a portent when you were left to survive in the middle of nowhere. The children were busy in some newly concocted prank, she was sure. It sounded more like a big animal scratching the door. The heavy iron saucepan was the best weapon she could manage at the moment; this was precisely why she hated her husband’s job – he was never around when she needed him the most. Muttering curses she tiptoed precariously across the hall and pressed her ears to the door. There was just silence that she could sense. Still, she mustered up enough courage and opened the door. The sight caused a little shriek to escape her mouth.

The barely alive man on her doorstep did not, as would be presumable, cause the shock; but the sight was like a fragment of the nightmares that tormented her quite often – how one day she’d find her husband in some similar fashion, tattered uniform cladding his mutilated body covered in blood and scars, breathing his last in her arms. It was like a connected train of intangible thoughts – the loneliness, the desperation and the pain. Reminding herself of the present danger, she made a quick decision as to her course of action. Here, in this no-man’s land, humanity is what you would resort to. She accumulated all the strength that her dainty self could generate and pulled the well-nigh corpse inside. There were unknown tremors of fear that coursed through her veins at the audacity of her actions – but she couldn’t leave a dying soldier at her doorstep – what if someday it was her Yuvi. She breathed in deeply. It was such an abysmal time to entertain such ideas.

She dressed his wounds as best as she could – so that the blood flow had stemmed. His regular breathing suggested he was asleep. She let her mind wander as she watched her patient in a peaceful slumber. She worried about Yuvi’s whereabouts – there hadn’t been any news from him for more than two weeks; it wasn’t unusual – he was a workaholic patriot. He’d repeatedly told her before marriage that he considered nothing above his duty and she couldn’t have loved him more. She loved to relate stories of his heroic deeds to their children and they couldn’t have been more proud of their father. She smiled. She didn’t like to live in such a warring turbulent hell fire, with a few houses scattered over a large area, none to share joys and tears with, and no pleasure of company. Most of the days the isolation killed her. But when, after a long hiatus, Yuvi turned up at the cottage door with that beautiful smile of his; and never forgetting the orchids for his wife, every malady dissolved in his arms and in his magical words. It was always worth it, and she would’ve done it a thousand times over. All those years ago, theirs was a story to be retold to generations to come – of a damsel in distress being rescued by a true hero, and their flight into freedom.

The peace emanating from the wounded soldier somehow infected her too, and she blissfully drifted into the warm dreams of her love.

There was never much sunlight to boast of in this place. The little light that flitted through the glass windows hurt his eyes. He sat up wincing with pain. The unfamiliar surrounding alerted his senses. Glancing around, he couldn’t recall when he had last been in such a homely ambience. He’d always preferred the life of a nomad – irresponsible and careless. He didn’t enjoy it, but the contrary option scared the wits out of him. He noticed the young woman dozing in a chair in front of him. She had to be in her late twenties- serene, intelligent and exquisitely beautiful. He lost track of time and space in that dazzling face.

A stifled peal of laughter broke his trance. He turned around to find two large capricious brown eyes ogling at him. She was her mother’s image – he hoped she would look as divine as the kid did when it smiled. He held his hand out – he was surprised to see how much he had healed – the girl came forward shyly and gave him a toothy smile. She was followed by a much younger boy who peered from below his sister’s arm. He had a gift with kids. That much he’d admit.

“Peekaboo!!”

The kids squealed with delight. It was obvious they didn’t have too many playmates around. The noise stirred her from her deep sleep (he was actually waiting for this moment against his better judgement.) She let out a soft cry of surprise at the sight of him. He tried his best at courtesy (wars have a way of diminishing manners) and thanked her for her generosity. She blushed a lovely crimson, and hustled towards the kitchen. He pitied her situation – left alone in this comatose wilderness with two dependant lives. She would surely be despondent and desolate. He controlled his emotions; and checked whether there were any signs of head trauma that he had suffered. He was rather wont to exhibiting a remarkeable inability to feel anything poignant or sensitive.

The lady, Isabelle, informed him that he had been unconscious for more than two days. (He felt good at the thought of having had such an angelic nurse tending his wounds.) He stood beside her in a qualm. She continued with her flustered attempt at conversation.

“Isabelle Rathod is a very unusual name”, he remarked.

“Yes”, she paused with a longing affectionate look in her eyes. “A very long story – my husband and I .. You don’t have to be bored with the details; but the point is he’s a Rajput – working for one of the Kashmir regiments here.”

The little happy bubble inside him burst with a slight pop. He envied that unknown face, with who, he felt sure, he must have crossed paths at some point of time. He didn’t expect her to be not married or unhappy in her liaison, but, the far away blissful expression that flourished her pretty face disappointed him a little.

“Which urges me to ask you”, she continued, “do you, by any chance, know him?” There was such fervent hope in her eyes, which made him falter in his speech. The children came in and dutifully took their seats at the table. The boy tugged at his trousers to follow him to the seat next to his. He obliged him.

The meal was a hearty one, accompanied by his surreal anecdotes that entertained the kids and his hostess.

“My husband does the same too, especially with the kids! Its tough being a parent”

She loved him in an unprecedented manner, it was so evident, and he loathed the sinister thoughts his weak heart was trying to conjure. Hadn’t he done enough to suffer for an eternity? Hadn’t he just killed a person? Hadn’t he betrayed and stolen life from his best friend?

“Something troubles you…” Her soft voice had an amazing ability to alleviate his worries. She placed her hand on his shoulder, and sat down beside him. He stole a glimpse at her – so painfully perfect!

“It’s been ages since I had someone around to talk to. Thank you. I was starting to feel so less social”

He heaved a sigh. If she rambled away in this fashion, he’d definitely end up doing something regrettably stupid. He called upon the best way to divert the topic.

“What did you say your husband’s name was?”

She looked hurt momentarily, but if she was, she concealed it well.

“Major Yuvraj Rathod”.

He racked his brains for a possible Yuvraj he may have known, who he would make sure, when he got back, bore the brunt of his jealousy. He failed to retrieve anything. It was for the good, he thought to himself, he couldn’t afford to add another crime of a vengeful murder to his long list. Abhay’s last sigh would haunt him for the rest of his living moments.

“Did you try contacting the regiment?”

She shrugged. It would have been absurd in any case. It was mayhem outside. No one would have the time to connect a call when there were bands of enemies infiltrating their posts and with regular curfews.

“He always made sure I get to know his whereabouts, but….”, she looked up and smiled, “I know how hard it is out there”

“Then why are you strangling yourself in this graveyard of a place – atleast those kids deserve better.” He felt a bitter resentment towards this Yuvraj – that dimwit should have known better than to have left his treasure out here to rot.

“You don’t understand – he and I, that’s all there is to us and to our kids. He left his world of affluence to rescue an abused girl, this is a very small price I’d have to pay in return. There are other families too, a little far away from here. Life isn’t benevolent perhaps, but it is not entirely devoid of happiness.”

It didn’t make sense to him still. He wished he could carry her away on a white horse to some distant Neverland and shower all the love he could muster on her and her children. But, she’d never comply.

He felt rejected, and thus, chose to lament silently.

She accompanied him in the silence.

It was snowing, little puffs of innocent flakes floated about and blurred the vision of the future, as if in an endeavour to freeze time. He didn’t want to think of going back – he feared he would never find the house again, or even if he did, that Yuvraj or whoever would be back, and she would not be grateful that he was around to talk to, and the kids wouldn’t recognise him. He despised every iota of this man’s life – the green curtains, the simple couch, the mantlepiece by the bedroom door, the painting adorning the hall, the devotion of his kids, and the love of such an ethereal masterpiece of a woman. He cursed his self-imposed desolation. He had nothing but his country to die for. So be it then, he might as well do that in the righteous manner. Without any further ado, he called up his commander and filled in on the details. He could sense his commander’s relief, and the whelps of joy from behind him. He didn’t deserve the woot and the welcome – he had proved himself to be a useful soldier devoid of valour and sacrifice. And, the woman in front of him made him realise how petty he was. He hurriedly dressed back in his ruined uniform.

Isabelle laughed quietly and asked him to wear a spare left somewhere in her husband’s wardrobe. Ignoring his vehement refusals, she handed him the uniform and exited the room. It ignited all that petty envy in him, all the longing that he was ardently trying to suppress. He had to control himself – he had not only entertained selfish thoughts about a stranger’s wife but also killed his sole pillar of support – all in a period of four days. Was suicide truly worth it? He was seriously considering such ideas in any case. He would execute that in his solitude anyway; but he wasn’t valiant enough for that, he admitted bitterly.

Reaching the front door, he stopped. If he turned back now, he’d know the finality of that look – the last time he’d ever behold her face. But he had to – so that a figment of her beauty could be etched in his mind forever. He could sense her standing expectantly, the gap between them thick with muddled questions. Managing the last few words would only be secondary to the titanic effort he required to stall the internal conflict. He gave up. He’d given up before, with his dying friend – was that all he could do? Was losing his forte?

There were innumerable questions in life that were hardly answerable – we beat on a thousand doors and yet return as obtuse as before. And sometimes, the answers we strive the most to avoid jump upon us suddenly and leave us painfully asphyxiated.

A photo frame peaked out from behind the table clock; it would have been hard to miss it in reality. He caught the image of the happy family that he’d never had in his life – so replete with limitless joy and gratification. Happier war free times perhaps, when she didn’t feel alone, when the kids had someone to guide them. The man had such a laughing handsome face in the photograph – none of which would anymore resemble the withering lackluster body that he’d left behind in the woods days ago. He was aware of each drop of blood that drained out of his heart as he eventually got back his lost voice.

“What is your husband’s name… Full name?”

She gave him a bewildered look, “Major Yuvraj Abhay Singh Rathod….”

The door had closed in on a wild ashen faced Isabelle, and the snowfall persisted in its attempt to eclipse one of many such abridged tales that it had witnessed, as he darted with certitude to vanish into the night’s many secrets.

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