May 27, 2015
I looked at my husband.
He was crying like a baby, the sides of his face in my hands, his four days old stubble grazing my palms.
At that moment, the line between romantic affection and motherly love wasn’t there anymore and my heart went out to him like he was my own kid.
I felt like I was dying of cancer, not by suicide, and that he was my four year old son.
It was as if he had been looking at the doctors coming at our house for days and although he hadn’t quite figured out what really was wrong yet, he knew in his heart that his mother was going away, somewhere very far.
All I could think of was how he would get very lonely soon.
The furious storm had turned into a mere drizzle when the rickshaw stopped beside the road. It appeared Zeus was done for the day.
The rickshaw puller was all drenched in his “lungi” and shirt. He mumbled a bad word, probably aiming his own anger at Zeus or some similar figure. Or maybe it was meant for the last passenger, who couldn’t be persuaded to give a few bucks extra for the rain.
He took out his little packet of weed and its paraphernalia and started to make a stick from scratch. Then he cozied up on his rickshaw seat, gave it a puff and uttered, probably at Zeus or at the raindrops or the last customer, “damn you!!!” and closed his eyes in ecstasy.