"Old wounds cease to hurt when they become scars,

but scars imprint on the heart, healing which often becomes an impossible task.

Recovery isn't a myth; you can if you choose to, heal and grow

the plant from the seed of strength and will that you had sown."

-Elegiac_Damsel

_____

3rd September

Third person's point of view:

London, England

In September, the city of London experiences a swinging variation in weather conditions. Starting with the lingering heat from the summer at the beginning of the month alongside humid showers, the end always sees the onset of autumn, the weather turning chilly and dry. The floors and pavements are usually lined with old, dead, and dry leaves, the trees and reptiles preparing for a few months of inactivity, into a state of weather influenced hibernation. The same tarmacadam streets that were seemingly dry with the assault of the sun's potent rays would be lined with cottony soft snow in a matter of few weeks. 

It was morning.

The streets were busy. The red buses, which were characteristic of the city of London, were filled with commuters. The subway stations were loaded to the brim with people spilling out onto the pavements from underground, having reached their destination, or were racing down the escalators or stairs, hurrying to catch the train they hoped to. Office goers and professionals, most of them clad in suits or other formal, official clothing, were hogging over cafes, standing in long queues impatiently, looking into their watches every minute, hoping to step up to the counter and order their preferred version of caffeine. 

Anindita, who had arrived in London by piloting an Emirates Airbus A380, from Mumbai, via Dubai, the previous evening, was taking a stroll around the busy Picadilly Circus area. The Picadilly Circus, a famous public space in London's West End in the city of Westminster, saw a particularly lively crowd each day at odd hours. It wasn't uncommon to see tourists dillydallying out on a shopping spree. The Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, the major aesthetic and historical attraction in Piccadilly Circus, saw an entire crowd of tourists clicking photographs, trying their best to capture the winged statue of Eros adorning the fountain.

Navigating through the crowd of tourists hogging over the sidewalk, Anindita made her way towards the subway station. Having underestimated the cold in the evening, she had come to Piccadilly Circus first thing in the morning to purchase a coat for herself. With the new coat already on her shoulders and her hands inside the deep pockets, seeking warmth, her expression was one of ease as she walked by herself quietly, oddly satisfied that no one paid heed to her or acknowledged her presence, content pretending to be a non-existent nobody. 

The city of London had always been one of Anindita's favourites ever since she first visited, around 4 years ago. She liked the city for the noise, the traffic and the crowds, which reminded her of Mumbai. The city was lively, unlike most other cities and towns in Europe. The fact that the city was busy, and that no one had the time to look at her, or judge, made her feel secure. She hurriedly bought herself a one-way ticket to Northfields, a locality in Ealing, West London, where Anindita was staying, at the Crowne Plaza. The Heathrow Airport was quite close by, a barely 30-minute drive from the hotel, which thus made commuting easier for her. 

Back in the hotel room, Anindita ordered some late breakfast for herself via room service, preferring to eat in the privacy of her room. 

Northfields was quiet, almost sinfully peaceful as compared to central London. Anindita was thankful for the silence. It gave her that privacy that she had been longing for. It gave her time to grieve quietly, to contemplate, and mull over all that had been bothering her. She took her time surfing the net on her iPad, looking up sites for natural remedies and cures that can relieve migraine, choosing to binge-watch a web series she had been meaning to watch right after. She spent the afternoon, in solitude, indulging herself, allowing herself to be swayed, in an ode to reassemble some of her lost enthusiasm to outgrow and conquer her grief. 

...

It was evening, a typical Friday evening in London saw the restaurants, bars, and pubs that were loaded to the brim. Most people celebrated the beginning of a weekend after a tiring week at work. 

Anindita was waiting in a cafe, ordering a coffee for herself. She had eaten an early dinner at a restaurant a while ago and was still wandering about in Oxford Square, where she had come in the evening. The slight chill in the air, characteristic of London, caused her to shiver as she waited in the queue. 

The warm cup of coffee cradled in her palms gave her relief, the warmth soothing her. She smiled at the serveuse who had taken her order and exited the cafe, her lips sipping the cappuccino from the small opening of the cup. 

She stood at a corner of the sidewalk, ensuring that she came in no one's way. Sipping quietly, the noise around causing her no bother, she cherished the freedom that being able to be alone brought her. The last few weeks had been emotionally challenging, and although she like Anurag and his family being there for Apurba in these times of grief, she hadn't found it in her to forgive her brother for the ordeal he had subjected her to. She had begun feeling asphyxiated at her own home, the additional worries of finance gnawing at her sanity. Now that she had been able to pilot at least one flight, she could afford to be slightly relaxed, grateful and relieved that things would eventually become normal again. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice; a voice that sounded so very familiar to Anindita. She froze momentarily, attempting to turn her face the other way, hiding from view, hoping that her side profile would bring no recognition or familiarity. 

"Anindita," the voice called out. "Is that really you?"

Knowing that it had been too late to hide, she turned to face the ghost from her past, managing to smile feebly at the man in front of her, a little boy who was not more than a year old, in his arms. 

"Kabir," Anindita greeted. "How have you been? I never expected we would meet again."

"It's good to meet you after so long, Ani," he greeted back, using Anindita's nickname, making it sound like they were back in college, and not meeting unexpectedly after 8 years. "What have you been up to? After losing touch with you, I seriously didn't expect we would ever connect again, let alone meet. You are posted here in London?"

"No, I am still based in Mumbai. I work with Emirates now. You are still based there as well, right?"

"Yeah. I am just here for a visit. My wife's brother lives here," he replied. "How did you guess I still lived there?"

"I had seen you once at Kokilaben Ambani Hospital in Andheri," Anindita confessed. "I had taken my father to consult a doctor there."

"Right," Kabir replied, not bothering to ask Anindita why she hadn't called out and said hello if she had seen him when she did. "How are your parents doing, Ani? And your brother? The last time we had met, he has just gone off to Chicago. Is he still there?"

"He shifted to Boston a couple of years ago," she replied shortly. "And my mother's well. My father left us last month."

"God, I am so sorry!" he exclaimed empathetically. "So, are you here for work?" Kabir asked, changing the course of their conversation.

Anindita nodded in response, her attention diverted towards the infant in her friend's arms, looking at her curiously, his hand outstretched wordlessly. 

"Hey there, little one," Anindita cooed. Turning towards Kabir, she asked, "Is this your son?"

"Yes, Anindita," Kabir replied. 

"What's his name?"

"This is Anand. Vidushi is the one who named him," he introduced. "After you," he added quietly.

Anindita was silent, smiling at the kid in her friend's arms as she absorbed what he said. Vidushi had been her best friend back in college and was also Kabir's twin sister. While Anindita and her brother had studied engineering at IIT, Bombay, she had been a Science student, pursuing a degree in Science, specialising in Economics. They had been a close-knit group along with a few more friends, always hanging out together, seldom seen separately. 

"How is she doing now?" Anindita asked at length, breaking her silence. 

Kabir sighed, "She is well. She is settled in Boston too, like your brother. She is married and has two kids; one daughter and a son."

"It's so tough envisioning a married Vidushi!" Anindita exclaimed, laughing. "You remember how we had all told us that she would eventually die single with the criteria that she had for her desired life partner?" she continued, fond nostalgia apparent in her voice. 

"She never dated after that," he said. "In fact, her marriage was an arranged match."

Anindita was shocked. The bold girl, who she had known as a friend, one who never shied away from being too straightforward with her boyfriends, and someone who always told her that it wasn't wrong to date multiple people before selecting the right one for yourself, that it had nothing to do with character, and that every individual ought to take their time to make the right decision for themselves. 

"Are you serious?" she whispered. "How did it happen? Vidushi of all people! It sounds so unlike her, Kabir."

"She felt guilty, Anindita," Kabir explained. "She felt guilty for what he did. She started feeling apprehensive of her judgment." Anindita's expression did not reveal much. Although she was terribly shocked, she couldn't find it in herself to react; she didn't know how to. 

Kabir continued, "In our community, the paternal aunt of a child is the one who names him or her. Hence, she could not name her own children. When my son was born, she was kind of disappointed that it wasn't a girl. Yet, she chose to name Anand after you, having kept you in her mind despite the years that might have transpired since."

"She cannot blame herself for what happened, Kabir," Anindita said quietly. "It was in no way her fault. Did you not tell her that?"

"Do you seriously believe that Anindita?" he asked her, his gaze boring into hers, confronting her. "We all thought you blamed her. We all thought you thought we were to blame, which is why you were prompted to cut all our ties."

"No," Anindita whispered. "I can never blame you for what happened with me. It was a criminal's mind at work, Kabir."

"Piyush," Kabir began, pausing immediately as he saw Anindita's fist clench, and her body shudder at the name. "I am sorry, Ani. I shouldn't have."

"I wish to speak to Vidushi," Anindita said, ignoring what he said, her face assuming a nonchalant look, contrary to the visibly disturbed expression that had graced her features a while ago. "I did not distance myself because I thought you guys were to blame, or that she was. No, Kabir. She couldn't have known! If anything, God forbid, but she could have been the victim! There so much toxicity in there that neither she nor us who were around us could have figured out."

He was quiet, turning to his son, who was pulling his hair, probably not liking his father's attention to the strange woman standing on the sidewalk. 

"I chose to distance myself because I couldn't bear to face all of you, Kabir," Anindita continued. "The accident was too much for me to bear. I took a long time to face my own reflection. Please try and understand my perspective. I just didn't want to be reminded of what life had been before I started looking like I do now. You are people I associate with good memories, beautiful ones. I didn't want to replace those good memories with an illusionary future with broken fragments from the past. I just wanted to recover."

"Mumma," little Anand called out suddenly, causing Kabir to turn back. Anindita noticed a woman, possibly younger than her or of the same age approaching them. She outstretched her hands for her son, who gladly sought his mother's arms, having been with his father for too long for his liking. 

Kabir cleared his throat, waving towards his wife, "Anindita, this is my wife, Ishani."

Anindita smiled at the woman, holding out her hand to shake, "Hi Ishani. I am Anindita. I used to be your husband and your sister's batchmate at college."

"She was Vidushi's best friend, and a part of the group of friends you have already met at our wedding," Kabir added.

Ishani returned the woman's smile, her gaze wondering curiously at Anindita's face for a moment, before she accepted her hand for a formal shake and spoke, "It's great to meet you." If she had any questions, qualms, or concerns, she chose to leave them unvoiced. Being a bit naive though, her expressions spoke volumes, conveying to Anindita the million thoughts that the woman couldn't conceal behind a poker face. 

Realising that she had overstayed her welcome and that the majority of conversation that had been destined to happen was already over, she cleared her throat, "I need to go all the way to Northfields. I should be on my way. Kabir, why don't give me your sister's number? I'll contact her someday soon."

"I don't trust that, Anindita," Kabir said quietly. "How about you giving me your number so that we can meet in Mumbai someday? All of us. My sister will be in the country during Diwali."

Anindita hesitated before accepting his phone and dialling her number for him. She did wish to contact her lost friends, but she hadn't been as keen as he seemed to be. Waving at Kabir, Ishani, and the little boy who was playing with his mother's nuptial chain, Anindita turned the other way, taking a sip of the coffee that she had forgotten about, grimacing as she tasted the now cold, bitter beverage. 

She turned to seek a waste bin where she could discard the styrofoam cup, hearing Ishani's voice, who was approximately in the same place as before, probably waiting for a cab, now choosing to bombard her husband with multiple questions. 

"Why did she not come to our wedding like everyone else did, Kabir? And what had happened to her? It looks horrifying," Anindita could hear her friend's wife asking him in Hindi. 

"I wish you had seen her before that fateful day, Ishani," was his only reply, almost sighing tiredly.

"You knew her before that had happened?" she pressed on, really curious to know of this mysterious woman who was apparently her husband and sister-in-law's friend from their days as students.

Kabir turned to his wife, his tone dismissive, his voice quivering very slightly as he revealed to her, "I saw it happening." 

His words were brief, but the intensity, and the trauma it masked, to actually be a witness of something so catastrophic in nature, to witness potent, furious bits of unanticipated pellucid liquid wreak havoc in someone's life, burning out a part of that person's soul, was am experience that he couldn't explain. Somewhere in his mind, the incident was still fresh, somewhere in the archives of his memories, Anindita's resounding screams of agony and torment deafened him. His heart picks its pace, abnormally pulsating against his ribs, serving as a reminder of that terrible incidence that he had been a helpless spectator to; one that had killed a part of her soul, and had caused her to be born again, as a vulnerable, live corpse with a beating heart that had closed its doors long ago.

...

9th September

Anindita had returned to Mumbai on the 5th. Having received a text from Vidushi, with subsequent ones from Kabir, Nakshatra, and Aditi, she had attempted to reconcile with them via texts. They had also made plans to connect on a teleconference someday whenever it would work out for all of them. The drift that Anindita and Vidushi's friendship had seen, had been filled in a bit with the reestablishment of communication. Exchange of photographs told Anindita about her friend's new family; the man she had married, the three-year-old daughter who scowled exactly like her mother, and the baby boy, just three months old, who had his eyes closed when the photograph had been taken. In return, Anindita had sent the friend photographs of her home in Nerul, Navi Mumbai, and snapshots of her nephews, Aryaman, and Rhitam. 

Overall, Anindita seemed to have embarked on a journey of recovery, possibly wanting to heal the old scars that had still been bleeding under the bandages she had used to patch them with. 

Anurag, Gitanjali, and their sons were scheduled to leave the next day. Their flight was at midnight. Apurba had been heartbroken to hear of their departure, finding it hard to digest that her two grandsons, who had brought her joy and hope, would also leave her alone. Anindita had borne her mother's childish meltdown, the devastation that seemed to have descended on her, seeming unbearable. 

"Why do you have to go?" she kept asking her son. Having lost her husband recently, unexpectedly and suddenly, Apurba felt more vulnerable; apprehensive and sceptical about letting her son and his family go away from her, to a land far away, where she might or might not hear from them again.

"Ma, they live there," Anindita tried to explain. "Dada and Boudi have jobs there. The kids have school. It's their home. You cannot expect them to live here all their lives."

"It took them 8 years to return to India, Ani," Apurba whispered, confiding in her daughter, voicing her fears. "8 years and your father's demise was what it took to get them home. I am afraid that the next time they come, I won't be there."

"Ma!" Anindita exclaimed, exasperated. "What's this you are saying?"

"I am just realising what is inevitable, sweetheart," she continued, despite her daughter's protest. "I will be gone someday soon. And I feel it in my heart that this is the last time I am seeing your brother, your sister-in-law, and my two grandsons."

Wordlessly, Anindita wrapped her arms around her mother, pulling her into a warm embrace. Apurba, though hungry, almost starved for her son's attention over the years, dying to meet her grandsons once, had finally gotten her heart's deepest desire fulfilled. But despite the pleasant few days that her son's family and presence had brought to her, she knew it was no use mourning. It was high time to return to the bitter reality. One could never have a satisfactory fill of what they craved, they simply had to do with whatever little life had to offer. 

Apurba had to accept the spoonful of what she had got; love, attention, nearness of her son, her daughter-in-law, and her grandsons, after yearning and pining for years. With them gone, it would be a return to her old life which was new in a way, dismally emptier, and more hollow. The only string keeping her alive being that woman she had birthed decades ago, one who hadn't given up on her yet, the daughter who needed her and her presence to ward off the evils of solitude, and trauma that her past was filled with. 

...

11th September

With Anurag and his family gone, the Mukherjee household seemed to have been stripped down to a threadbare mattress. 

Although Anindita had gone to see them off the previous evening, she had woken up, almost taken aback at how empty her home seemed. She had gone about her own routine; preparing breakfast for Apurba, giving her all the requisite medicines, and then preparing lunch before leaving for Bandra Kurla Complex for the fortnightly training session that she conducted as a guest lecturer for trainee pilots. She had an hour of classes from 12 to 1, followed by an appointment with Satyaki at his Worli chamber at half-past one. She drove off on her own, reassuring Apurba that she would be back soon and informing her that Ms Thomas would drop by in the afternoon.

After a tedious hour in the class, Anindita set off towards Worli, a nervousness weighing her down. As asked by Satyaki, she had brought along all her relevant medical files and records. She was seeking medical help from a professional after several years, and that did little to ease her fear.

Reaching Satyaki's chamber at around 1.20 pm, Anindita was informed by the woman at the reception that he was checking up on a patient, and that it could probably be 1.40 before he would be able to see her. Picking up a medical journal from the rack in the waiting area, Anindita began flipping through it, pausing at the article about organ failure and transplant. Apurba's kidney ailment and condition and the possible need for a transplant shortly, weighing on her mind as she went through the details listed in the article. 

She was eventually called to enter the consultation room at 1.45 pm. The woman outside at the reception, apparently the doctor's assistant, had taken down Anindita's vitals, namely, her weight and height. 

"Good afternoon, doctor," Anindita greeted Satyaki as she entered his room, having been permitted to enter, after knocking on the door twice. 

Satyaki returned her greeting, directing her to take her seat across him, at his desk. He asked about her history with migraines and what were the triggers. Enquiring about the intensity of pain, he chose to ask her about the intensity of pain that her body had convulsed through at the time of her accident. 

Anindita was quiet, having been taken aback by Satyaki's question.

"I would rate the pain I experienced back then to be around 9 out of 10," she ceded at length, hesitantly. "The migraine headaches would probably be rated at 6."

"Medicines you take to remedy the pain?" Satyaki inquired, typing something on his computer. 

"Paracetamol and Ibuprofen. Recently, I tried using aromatherapy with peppermint oil and lavender. I even tried making pastes with cinnamon and clove to apply locally and relieve the pain. It isn't as effective as the painkillers, but they soothe enough to relieve the pain to a bearable level," she said. "It is effective enough to lower an ache with an intensity of 6/10 to 2/10."

"I have to ask you this, Anindita," Satyaki sighed, looking up at her. "How often is your migraine pain accompanied by headache, nausea, or vomiting? And is the pain more intense when you are triggered by certain food or memories or any other, particular stimulus?"

Following a series of more questions, queries about medicines that she had been on previously, drugs that she was allergic to, food that triggered her pain and restlessness, etc., Anindita started feeling bored. She absolutely loathed visits to the doctor and the hospital, having felt that she's had enough visits to compensate for a lifetime, given the surgeries she had to undergo for her skin, and all the other follow-ups. Living with ailing parents had seen her having to see a doctor or visit an infirmary too often, and so she liked keeping herself away, neglecting her health.

"When was the last time you visited the doctor for yourself?" Satyaki asked Anindita while taking her blood pressure. "Your father had hypertension, didn't he?"

Anindita nodded, knowing where he was getting at. She had mild high blood pressure too, but usually, unless utterly provoked or swayed by emotional and hormonal changes, it had been manageable and under control. 

"You have borderline hypertension," he stated, continuing despite Anindita's silence. "High blood pressure can trigger migraine attacks, severe ones at that. And from what I can decipher, you have a lot on your mind that bothers you, weighs you down, gives you stress, and doesn't allow you to heal or recover."

"I am not going for therapy," Anindita stated coolly, realising that this could be what he was trying to implicate. 

"No, I wasn't about to suggest that," Satyaki replied. "From what you said about your symptoms and conditions, I am given to understand that a lot of your migraine attacks are triggered by memories and nightmares, and you need to recover mentally for us to make a progress here, but I have known you long and well enough to know that you are quite uptight and that it would take you decades to open up to any therapist. I wouldn't suggest that to you, but Anindita, if you seriously wish to help yourself, a good time to start doing so will be now."

"For now, please refrain from smoking or taking alcohol regularly. An occasional one is alright, but that too is best avoided," he continued. "Continue with the aromatherapy, and get a precautionary CT scan done. You can send me the reports via WhatsApp. If need be, I'll put you on further medication. Limit the use of painkillers, and time out the frequency of your migraine attacks, and look out for auras like problems with your vision, numbness or tingling in your limbs, and speech difficulties. Take an Ondem if nausea and vomiting are persistent. Monitor your blood pressure weekly, preferably in the morning, and please keep tabs on it. I'll prescribe you medication for hypertension if you cannot manage it with certain lifestyle changes."

Satyaki printed out the prognosis report for Anindita, signing and stamping at the end.

"How is your mother doing?" Satyaki asked, holding out the report for her. "Is she well?"

"She is keeping up or at least trying to," Anindita replied. "She has been upset and a bit crestfallen since my brother and his family left yesterday, but in all honesty, if I were her, I would just thank my lucky stars that they bothered to come and stayed on for the while they did, instead of leaving the very next day after the cremation." 

Satyaki sensed the bitterness born out of hurt that was apparent in Anindita's voice. Her stoic self had seemingly broken its reservations and lowered its guard since her father's demise. The vulnerability that had so cleanly and cleverly been masked and concealed, seemed to be exposing itself, gradually, unwittingly. 

"Why don't you bring your mother over to my place this weekend? On Saturday?" Satyaki suggested. "It would do her good if she spent some time with my mother and with Dugga. Staying alone, trapped within four walls of gloom and grief isn't going to help her recover or overcome her loss and bereavement anytime soon."

Anindita nodded weakly, standing up to thank Satyaki. She exited the chamber and left for the remaining session at Bandra Kurla Complex.

As she drove across the Bandra-Worli sea link, with the windows down, the saline breeze of the ocean caressed her face. The warm afternoon sun shone down with all its might, falling on Anindita's face and the car's windscreen, bright enough to be noticed but not sufficient enough to blind. She contemplated on what Satyaki said, wondering in her mind why she let herself be so much affected by what happened. Perhaps it was alright to be traumatised, perhaps it was okay to be affected, but 8 years later, she was still fighting off nightmares, suffering silently. Recovery seemed like a hypothetical option. She had been strong enough to ward off professional challenges and had picked herself up after falling to her doom. She had risen to each trial and had given it her best to conquer, but why was recovery still a far and distant dream?

Anindita had no answers. Did her burnt face continue to affect her? Afflict pain, mentally if not physically?

The answer to each question was a resounding, echoing yes. She had her qualms about ever making a total recovery. That day when she had met Kabir, she had tried her best to avoid encountering him, to avoid seeing the reflection of her old, forsaken self which had burned to its death with that one splash of acid. She couldn't undo what had transpired. She couldn't avoid the mirror, which reflected herself and her past.

Perhaps she had run away long enough, flying simply being a delusion. If she had to fly in reality, she had to obliterate what had happened. It was impossible to forget everything in its entirety, but it would be an unforgivable sin to give up without trying to live, not just for her mother or for those who cared for her, but just once, for herself.

...

To be continued...

Published on: 12th August 2021

Author's note:

Hi! I hope all of you are doing well. 

My 2nd year at college began! Yay!!! Or maybe naaaaaahhhhhh..... have a lot of work to do *cries in a corner*
Life isn't easy for any of us now, is it? Well, I hope and pray we get to overcome this together. Please do continue taking all precautions. Wear your masks, sanitise regularly, *VACCINATE* yourselves, and above all, do not give up on your hope. <3

Please do let me know what you think of the chapter and the story so far. I am really thankful to you for giving Anindita's story a chance.

With best wishes,

Elegiac_Damsel

P.S. Please do VOTE, SHARE, and COMMENT if Anindita's story has been able to strike a chord with you.

P.P.S. Take care and stay well. :-)