Redemption

REDEMPTION 1

Depression shrouded her as it swallowed her into a realm of obscurity. Its murky belly hid her from the light, and she found refuge in its sludge. Its venomous words were so warm, so comforting. It hissed into her ears, ‘let’s kill ourselves’. Its cruel kindness constricted her until she couldn’t breathe. Depression slithered through her veins, her sinews, her blood – tightly coiling around her heart as she sank into the tub.

As she drowned, the cries and smiles of her daughters flashed in front of her. She gasped for air, pulled herself together, resting her gasping head against the cold ceramic. She couldn’t selfishly end her misery; her misery was theirs too, but they were her promise. How could she leave them alone in this cruel world?
The ugly truth gaped at her and leered. It pierced through her, bullying her until she was ready to surrender.
Now she knew. But her frail soul could not accept it. It terrified her.

“I slept with her. I am sorry. I slept with her twice. I was weak, and you didn’t make it easy for me. The fights between us. I was so angry with you.”
She always thought it was her privilege. The bed: a sanctuary where a man and woman sign a sacramental pact, a place where two bodies become one, the throne of romance where passionate secrets unfold, where they undress the naked truth, discovering an oasis of love in their dance of desire, uniting as two and thus giving birth to a sacred union of one. Him and her. Husband and wife. Soulmates.

But he had callously dethroned the beauty of the bed by raping her privilege and her trust.

REDEMPTION 2

He had slept with a woman who had stayed in his motel for two days. Not once, but twice. This was two years ago. They had known each other for only two days and then she had left, he said. She was a globetrotter who was not into commitments, two days, and that was it. His excuses stretched like a rubber band. Why did he confess? One might wonder. Yesterday, an email from a woman whom she knew not claimed that her husband was still in touch with her. The confession was not voluntary. When confronted, he finally relented.
Sedated memories that were chained in the deepest dungeons of her mind ripped through her.
Today was not the first time she faced the evil ploys of Fate.

This was a pattern. A vicious cycle of love that looped around her. Its tentacles strangled her heart and blinkered her eyes; and once again, she was always ready to forgive. He was her first love. Her only love. She stumbled into an abyss of love which veiled the truth and altered her reality. Forever.
He was a charming demon of a man. He could sweep her off her feet with just a smile. She saw him as the essence of her soul, the only love she knew. Any other man looked less than a man. Even his arrogance was a virtue. She worshipped him. Her truth was pathetic, and his truth was wicked.

When they vowed to be there for each other in front of the Crucified Lord; swearing on a life that was for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death did them apart, she believed it. She blindly believed every syllable of this false oath. The fire within her blazed. Burning brightly in her white dress, tickling with hope, she kissed him. The passionate poison intoxicated her heart, coursing through her, consuming her.

REDEMPTION 3

Her thoughts were scattered. Shattered. She always mended it with false hope. A hope that she firmly believed was the reality. In her mind, she frantically erased the misery that engulfed her. She had lost herself in this grotto of manipulation. Once upon a time, she was a girl with aspirations and strength, and laughter was her best friend. She was a tomboy. But now, who was she? The woman who she saw in the mirror wore a grimace. A sad glint twinkled, and a tear cascaded, followed by another and another. She felt garroted; her heart caught in a trap of a toxic love that was poisoning her esteem, lowering her and cowering her to mere dirt. But in her eyes, this was how a man loved a woman. She silently succumbed to the storm of scorn and arrogance. She forcibly turned her face, denying the dread that ogled at her. This was how she really felt with the man whom she was in love with. In the corner of her mind, her weak lucidity knew the truth. But she always muted its voice and hushed it with lullabies of fear. This voice whispered incessantly, convincing her that she should yield. Endure. This love knew only fear. Fear of losing the truth she knew. The familiar truth. The fear of losing what she strongly believed was love.

His brand of love altered and sorted her version of love. Her naivety devoutly accepted his indifference as well as his egotism and blame games and tenaciously chose blindness to see what she wanted herself to see. It was convenient.

Five years back, when they welcomed their second daughter into the world, he was sinking into a swamp of debt. Loans, loans and more loans threatened his freedom. The prison was stretching its arms wide to welcome him. Poverty was sharpening its claws, ready to rip him apart. His family and his friends abandoned him. They wanted not his burdens. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She remembered her oath: for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. Determined, she stood by his side. It was her devotion to him and her fierce love that guarded him. She sold her jewellery, her

.
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properties, and finally, she begged for help from her family. And their love, unlike his, was true. Help arrived in many forms, and he was saved from the iron clasps of the law.
And now…
The email declared:
‘He hosted me through ‘Slumber on a Sofa.’
Trembling, she typed the words and bit her nails as she entered the site. She spelt his name. Nothing appeared. She located their city, and the names of the hosts in the vicinity appeared in front of her. It screened the shots of many hosts. She raced through the site like a mother who had lost her child in a carnival, looking for him. And there he was on page 3. She clicked.
He wore the smile of cupid – a portrait that she had never before seen. His information too was alien to her: A single man, aged 35, a naturist, open-minded, interested in tantric yoga, and glad to host souls that are hungry for adventure.
Her eyes swam through the reviews. There were a few men and many women.
Women had recommended her husband. They had vouched for his openness and kindness.
She clicked.
Click. He was my safe haven.
Click. Oh, I could write poems about this wonderful man.
Click. We had a connection the moment we met. My stay was magical.

REDEMPTION 5

Click. I stayed with him for 25 nights. This is where I found myself. He soothed my troubled soul.
Click. Click. Click…
The guests paid the hosts no money here. She had learned this fact from the site. They paid with ‘kindness’. What was meant by kindness? She refused to accept the answer.
He needed money to settle his debts, and that was why he was working hard. That was why he hardly came home at night. That was why she worked full time, and solitarily played the game of the breadwinner. He had debts to pay. She had always convinced herself. Until now…
Now, the truth held her tight. It demanded her to witness.

Her fractured sanity shook her, and it screamed at her. She crumbled.
He had slept with a hippie globetrotter who wanted a one-nighter. But the lavish inamorato booked her in for another night. Deal of the day- buy one get one free! This was one story that she knew. How many more others did she not know of? She was a foetus in a womb of anguish; helpless and entombed. She pressed her face into the hard cement floor in search of solace in its stony coldness.

She descended into the deepest corners of her being, and she opened a page from the past that she had carefully locked away. A memory so old, its wound still fresh, and one which she carefully disregarded. As always.

They had been married for fifteen years. Five years after their walk along the aisle, she was ready to welcome the promise of their union. It grew in her womb, fuelling her with hope. This would make him love her. She soothed her soul by convincing.

REDEMPTION 6

Herself that his indifference was due to his work. It kept him away from her throughout her pregnancy. But it was his baby that was growing inside her. She believed that this would spark the love that was now a mere pile of ash and she desperately clung to this utopian lie for she trusted that his love was ready to rekindle with the right trigger. This tot in her womb was the trigger.
When she held the little beauty in her arms and let its soft lips suckle her nipple, she felt her weary blood turning into tender milk, and she realized that this tiny little human had stolen a part of her. This was the moment that would bring the change that she had waited for all these years. She brought her bundle of hopeful promise into the house that sheltered her hopeless marriage.
That night.

He was very tired and had fallen asleep. She too was tired, and she felt her fatigue calling her to the comfort of her bed. Mothering was new to her, and her motherly duties were fast piling up. She fed her daughter, changed the diaper and kissed her goodnight.

She was a daughter too. Seeking solace in her mama’s voice was more soothing than the soft feathers of her mattress. The fresh caesarian wounds craved for that attention, yearning for her mother’s comfort. Care was a mere phone call away.

Despite the fact they were two different individuals, he and she owned identical phones. Both a gift from her brother who lived abroad. Yet the last time she saw his phone was when her brother gave him the gift box. He guarded it like a toddler would with his toy. She didn’t notice. She was never bothered.
But this night was different. She was exhausted. In her drowsy haste to call her mother, she picked up the phone that was on the bed.

REDEMPTION 7

The interface looked different to her. ‘I am so tired,’ she thought. There was a message from a friend of hers whom she had ceased to consider a friend. Why would she message her now? She wondered. When she clicked the message, what greeted her cracked her heart.

The inbox was overflowing with messages from her.
He had forgotten to hide his toy. His prized plaything. And in it, she found his forbidden treasure.
—Darling, are you alright? —Sweetheart, I am worried about you. —Love, I am waiting for your call.
She quickly clicked the outbox, praying that there shouldn’t be any messages. But her faith spat on her face.
‘Look at this!’ it smirked.

The cavernous facts crept through her eyes, forcing her to react.
Her scream shook him awake, and when his eyes caught sight of his phone in her hand, he lost himself. He elbowed her to grab his playboy toy from her shivering hands. His surging anger burned her sobs as he smashed it against the mirror. It shattered the mirror into a thousand shards as it rested on the floor, glitching and grinning, dragging with its last breath, the truth that was previously denied. It died a peaceful death.

But that was the death of her peace too. The trust that she had placed in him, despite his neglect and his anger, was now broken. Broken mirrors can never be mended. An undeniable truth. But she was an empath. What she did not know was

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these broken shards would cut her time and again, slashing her heart into bloody ribbons.
Her compassion for him led her to blindfold herself and worship her God of a husband. His wrath was Hades, but his carnal desires masqueraded in the charming allure elevated him to the pedestal of Zeus.

He knew her, and her weakness was him.
He cried: “you were pregnant, and you were carrying our baby.”
He pleaded: “she started to message me casually asking about you.” He convinced her: “it was all her fault. Trust me. I was not even interested in her.”
And she let him win her back: “I didn’t tell you. I am sorry. I should have. But I was worried about your health.”

He was the master of malignant mind games. His love reeked of manipulation, deceit and lies. His love bombs blasted flowers of treachery, yet the fragrant stench was welcoming, and she sank into the bed with him once again. The purity of this sanctuary, now marred by rapines of deception, left her hapless and naked, unguarded in the grips of his poisonous persuasion.
The narcissist in him thrived in her tears. In her fear. He was able to let a tear or two roll from his eyes which would tie her down with trust.

At the onset of this nuptial agreement, she was not ready to accept the toxicity that was poisoning her healthy mind. Yet, his gruelling gaslighting assiduously altered her reality and in the process, she split into two voices: A voice that was wise and rebellious, but weak; while the other was wickedly subduing, a slave. It worshipped

REDEMPTION 9

his supremacy. This was the voice that crept through her and silenced her sanity. It was dominant, and it was stubborn.
This grotesque love lulled her splintered soul. It forcibly blindfolded her and denied the truth and masked her with lies that comforted her. He was her lie.
But today…

Today, the email shook her. It seized her sanity and prised it open. ‘Look’, it laughed. ‘Look at me!’
It read,
‘Did he tell you that he has a son? He told me that he was divorced. If I had known the truth, I wouldn’t have got involved with him. He hosted me through ‘Slumber on a Sofa’. That was how we met. I am sorry. I thought you should know. I have my reasons why I decided to tell you now. Think well and do what is best for you. Good luck.’
A battle began in her perplexed mind. The voices argued.

‘Good luck?’ the slave stared at her, confused. ‘Good Lord!’ the rebel gasped.
‘Think, well… this was an accident,’ the slave begged. ‘Think what?’ the rebel whimpered.
‘Your daughters! They need their father!’ the slave insisted. ‘He has a son,’ the rebel struggled.
A son? She gulped.
Bottled tears of betrayal broke free. It ran helplessly down her cheeks. There was another woman.

REDEMPTION 10

The other woman’s villainous smiles crushed her. With voluptuous hips and smoky lips, this Jezebel had tempted him and tarnished his virtue. She loathed this tart, and in her mind, she saw a slut. A whore. A heartless harlot who had stolen her throne. How could she? Why would she break a family apart? Wasn’t she a woman too, this other woman? That was when it dawned.
The other woman was not the homewrecker. She was not even aware of his marriage vows. She was not the one who vowed in the presence of their Lord until death do them apart. The other woman was not the father of her daughters. How could the other woman have betrayed her?

It was him. His choice. His decision. He broke the marriage vows. He betrayed. He had toyed with her life while playing around with many women. He was her daughters’ father, yet he callously sired a son during a one-night stand? Were there many more fruitless fruits in his list of random concubines? She did not know.
Her nameless God was a philandering fiend.

She stumbled down her memory lane. A lane that was broken and battered. She slipped, and she fell into the holes of abuse and anguish. Her dominant voice coiled around her, choking her, imploring: ‘Forgive him, accept his faults. The children need a papa’.
Her collections of memories were thrown all over her mind. It was vital that she read through the pages of her life. So she scuttled, trying to reach the scattered memoirs.
She started to recollect the ugliness, the cancerous truths that she forcibly hid from her conscience. Fifteen years of memories that moulded her to the weakling she had come to be.

REDEMPTION 11

The memories chanted and danced into a nightmarish frenzy as she was transported to the past.
She remembered the time that he had held her hand and persuaded her that he would always be there for her. A teardrop peeked through her eyes.
She remembered the time she lost her purity to him. She treasured the moment and re-ran it like a saved memory clip, for lately, she did not have many memories of his touch. He had stained her and stolen her virgin heart on their first night together, hid it in the dark chambers of his heart in which, she now realised, she wasn’t the only resident. He hid her away so deep that she never found herself. It was now that she could see why their sanctuary was deserted. Ages ago. He had abandoned her in this oasis which she now fathomed was always a mirage. Loneliness wrapped its arms around her as she unwillingly embraced its kindness, for it was her companion in her hallowed, always hollowed throne.

She remembered the time she had slipped and hurt her leg. Blue and bruised, it cried for care. The excruciating pain left her moaning through the night which disturbed his slumber. The care she yearned for came to her in the form of a hard kick, which clouted her face. It was not only her leg that was blue for the next two weeks.
The following morning, he had conveniently forgotten that it was his leg that silenced her whines. He effortlessly said that he was sorry and she accepted the blessings of apology from him. Life was back to normal.

She remembered the time she forgot to answer his call while she was at work. He picked her up in the evening. The car reeked of alcohol. He spewed words of filth and obscenity as he erupted with anger. Fuming with rage, he raced his car so fast

REDEMPTION 12

that she thought he would drown them all in the dam. But he did not do that. Instead, he took her home, pushed her on the floor and trampled her hand with his hard iron-studded boots. He couldn’t forgive those fingers of hers for not hastening to answer his ego.
The following morning, he greeted her with a steaming cup of tea- his concoction of an apology. She struggled, yet held the cup with her swollen fingers, and as she drank it gratefully, she felt her starved soul being filled with the elixir of love. Life was back to normal.

She remembered the countless times he carefully hid his phone from her sight. The boy in him was a fierce guardian of his toy.
She remembered how he never touched her now. She remembered how he denied her his body. She accepted his disdain and denial without questioning.
She recalled. She recollected. She remembered. Her memories so bitter surged over her and she drowned in them. Gagging and struggling, she desperately looked for a memory so pleasant that it would save her. A happy log to hold on to, to save her from this epiphanic flood. There were none.

Even now after all this, she desperately desired and dared to hope. Forgive him. Take him back.
She tirelessly tried to gather the broken pieces and fix the mirror she treasured the most. Her soul could be seen in it, she thought. Yet a thousand shards of her screamed silently. One cut her too. ‘Stop it, you fool. You have no soul, and something broken can never be mended.’

REDEMPTION 13

The voices in her raged. The dominant slave was not ready to retreat. It gripped the sage rebel and sank into it its sharp vampiric teeth. It attacked her sanity and tried to blind her eyes with the lies that she labelled as her reality. The battle within her was so cataclysmic that her mind was losing its grip on her, unhinging the guardian gates of her sanity. It furiously pleaded her to choose. To choose wisely.

Now she saw that the pile of ash would never be set aflame. The broken pieces would never be mended.
All his lies. All her naivety. The insults upon her intelligence smarted.
She couldn’t fight anymore. She had withstood the storm for far too long. Hope refused to stand by her. Her scarred soul beseeched for mercy.
She gave in.

It’s time! End this! End this now! End this agony forever!
She took a sliver of the broken mirror.
She slashed.

The rebel slew the slave. It silenced the susurration of subjugation. Readily and purposefully, she slashed the toxic ties, and she tore off the blindfold.
The frail phoenix set herself on fire. Blazing and burning, she rose softly. And her weak tears smiled victoriously. ‘Let him go! Set yourself free.’

That was when she heard Freedom beckoning her, and she marched out of the door that shielded the saga of a dejected love. Clinging to her skirt were the only blessings of this misery; her two little promises to whom she was the world.