“There is a mail for you” – said Aakriti.

“Its there on the computer table, neath the pen stand.”

He was looking forward to some kind of correspondence from Saira. He was thinking all about it on his way back home; in a rickshaw, he took everyday, from office to home; his own chariot.  

It would be fancy to go out this time of the year, a stress-burster much needed. He had been planning this with Saira for long, and now was the time; a perfect time for a holiday.  The weather is beautifully benign, a cusp of winter and summer in the spring; the mornings were still misty and chilly, while the afternoons were one long stretch of breezeless sunshine, to its glory. The evenings steadily long, with a translucent grey sky, with gusts of clammy, cool breeze rattling thoughts, perfect for those longs walks, hand in hand, with a partner.

“Should be from Saira” – he said. “I ll get it. Thank you.”

He approached the computer table, to find a paper envelope, brown colored, with dirty hand stains of oil and ink. Curiously excited, he kept the packets down on the couch and reached for the mail. Inquisitively he picked it up to notice that it mentioned nothing about who sent it. He tore the envelope carefully, to find a folded piece of paper inside, which seemed to have something scribbled in it. A little distracted by the neighbour’s dog barking outside, he chuckled, stealing a look outside the window, as he unfolded it. It was just a one-liner.

“Nandini is ill. Come soon.“

Thoughts played like a violin in his head, trying to yield ramifications from the past. It was a mixed feeling; a dash of anger with fresh pangs of guilt and reproach. Upbraided, he dared not to remember it, but thoughts from the past, lingered, over and over, again and again. It was her own wish to go away; how easy it is, for people to get back to a life, they chose to leave behind, ages ago. Clouded with feelings of guilt, anger and despair he didn’t know which to chose, to go on with. Frustrations seemed to have clobbing him down already.

“Who is it from, Darling?“

“Ah nothing.. Its mine.. Official.“

“But… she is ill” – he said to himself. “Or may be she doesn’t know it was sent to me. It mentions no name.”

All this was so confusing, that it left him weary, with an unexpressed emotion. This bore him beads of perspiration on his forehead, as some flies whined around his ears, advising him, what he wanted or what should be the right thing to do.

“Why the hell should I go?” – he thought.

“Why now?”

However, the compelling aspect, was his mysterious affinity, he still had for her, connected with strings untied, of times of intimacy they once had; among other things, in the bizarre concatenation of events, desires and emotions, that led them to be two kids, close at heart, whenever they met; pampering each other, sometimes also fighting resplendently, non-stop to the glory.

Has something seriously gone wrong with her? Why such a mail after so many years? Has something irrevocable happened? Or is it just a deliberate euphimism, as it is often, on the part of a cautious sender to tell people closely related, to seek their attention.

“Was she dying?”

“No. That cant be…”

Assailed by grim possibilities, thinking of the greyest of things, that could happen. He exclaimed - 

“No that cant be. I shouldn’t be thinking all this. Despite everything that happened, she still means to me. No second thoughts.”

“I ll go. I should go.” – he said.

(Continued at mail from the past – 2.)

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I have not written a story in ages. Almost nine years. I was inspired to write for Tell a tale – Week 1 prompt. Shall finish this if it manages to catch the interest of readers.