The Pen with a Golden Nib

“It doesn’t look like how they show it in the movies. Does it?” My protruding brown eyes which I had bejeweled artistically in the morning to conceal my newly ripened, yet unidentified agony, eyeballed the small room which they referred to as Family Court. Devraaj looked at me, chuckled and said, “I don’t know whether to call you ignorant or innocent for this. Probably both.” His response was nothing new to me. Devraaj Roy was well documented for his honey dripping sarcasm. And in the last fifteen years of my spousal life, I had become a veteran in deciphering his expressions, segregating sarcasm from humour and comprehending the untold. As my ears ignored his words, my eyes pranced on every element in the room. The room was festooned with the intricate, delicate artwork of the household spider. The cobwebs were timeworn and no longer shouldered the looks of a soft, thin, white silky thread. Rather, they were dark and heavily laden with dust. Some stuck to the walls; a few smeared on the closed window’s frame while some hung from the rafter and often were billowed by the breeze from the fan. The door which creaked disgustingly when we entered was probably varnished recently, for its pungent smell was omnipresent and nauseating as well. There was a raised podium where the Honourable Judge, Sangamitra Chatterjee, was sitting and browsing through my married life inked on paper. Her desk exhibited some hefty legal books along with a few files, papers, pen and an artistic turquoise paperweight. Our respective advocates were twitching their fingers in impatience while I was engrossed in ogling the brass tacks of my surroundings.

My senses perceived a kind of impulsiveness in the air. Amidst the unruffled state of all the inanimate objects in the room, the humans bore a ruffled air of impetuousness. Advocates Sinha and Mishra had ants in their pants to finish this case for getting their final payment done. Justice Chatterjee was probably tangled in some familial issues as her attention flitted between our documents and her mobile phone which was beeping quite frequently. And my man, soon to be freed from the clutches of marital trap, was piqued due to the unsuitable seating arrangement provided to us. A flat, hard wooden bench was certainly troublesome for anybody with a tailbone pain.

“Is it paining too much?” I asked.

“Sort of.” Devraaj nodded his head and took out his handkerchief to wipe the glistening beads of sweat off his forehead. He, who chaired one of the biggest conglomerates of the country, and inured to all the luxuries of life, was indeed in a niggling ambience in this small room which lacked even proper ventilation. Droplets of sweat were accompanied by an anxiety caused due to the physical discomfort. Devraaj’s bushy arched eyebrows, which highlighted the beauty of his downturned eyes, were raised in surprise for the unwarranted delay in the verdict. And my eyes were still fixed on him as if admiring his charm for the one last time.

Our marriage treaded on a conscious conjugal discord since many years but we wished to put a legal stamp on it only a year ago when I proposed my decision of divorce. Devraaj never opposed. I moved to our flat in Andheri West which he had gifted me on our tenth anniversary and since then our rendezvous was restricted to official meetings along with our respective advocates. However, in today’s inopportune moment, I was clueless as to why my eyes were stealing furtive glances of him. Devraaj was still the same. Just like our first meeting, except for his prematurely grayed hair. He still bore the same charisma. A clean shaved triangular jaw-line had the faintest tinge of green amidst his fair complexion. The over pronounced nose bridge with a curved end, a thin upper lip and a perfect lower lip grappling an alluring smile, black eyes glittering like two onyx orbs in the flame were enough to make anybody fall for him, irrespective their gender and sexual preference. Devraaj was handsome and his magnetism was magnified by his achievements. A soul with brimful of energy, incessant zeal to excel and always hankering to attain success, Devraaj never bargained for anything but the best. However, a man seeking perfection in every aspect of life was not unblemished entirely. His opinionated attitude, spiced up with a bit of caustic tongue, was acknowledged by many, official as well as familial, but at the brink of 45, he had garnered so many accolades that probably this one flaw of him was overlooked by all or rather marketed as a trait of a successful man.

“Your reason for separation is bizarre.” Justice Chatterjee spoke for the first time. Her face portrayed her mind’s muddled state. I blinked a couple of times, forced myself back to the present and stayed silent not knowing what to respond. She stared at both of us with her rimless spectacles resting on her nose. “Do you need some more time to reconsider your decision?” She uttered again. The silence that lingered a few minutes ago was slaughtered as we both screeched a big NO unanimously. Justice Chatterjee was tacit, with a stare displaying a bit of surprise. Her thin lips, which she struggled hard to smear with red lipstick, were tightly pursed but her eyes demanded some more responses from us.

“We broke apart a long time ago. We are just legally separating now.” I pasted a perfunctory smile and spoke. Devraaj sneered at my statement, turned to me and asked, “Was it created ever?” I glared at him. He wore a smile but not that of happiness. His eyes were not moist but were etched with an undisclosed pang. His face upheld the charm but construed a concealed gloom. Neither was my statement wrong nor his doubts. It was an arranged marriage, not by force but by choice. In the last fifteen years, every ingredient of marital life blossomed except love. We were caring, observant, understanding and even sexuality was entertained but we lacked something unexplainable.

I still remember the day when I was first introduced to him. It was 14th of February. The fever of Valentine’s Day was still embryonic in India, though it was bourgeoning rapidly; and the credit undoubtedly went to Mr. Shahrukh Khan and the Bollywood blockbuster Dil to Pagal Hai. However, 14^th of February of that year left its footprints in my memory for another reason. It was my brother’s marriage. Amidst some three hundred odd guests, my aunt whispered into my ears to turn back and look at the man wearing a lilac colour shirt with navy blue jeans. I was in the final year of my Masters in English literature. Adoration for literature, a dozen good friends and a loving family concluded my life. With no love affair or fanatical ambitions of becoming financially independent to speak of, I was quite prepared to get marriage proposals. Thus, my aunt’s undertone was not incomprehensible for me. I looked at the proposed man and if there is something called love at first sight, that moment was it. I was enamoured by Devraaj. My eyes shadowed him the whole evening. His family details reached my eardrums intermittently but the only thing that enthralled my young soul was his glittering black eyes and ingenuous smile.

“Madam, please sign here.” I was knocked back to the present when my advocate Rajesh Mishra placed some documents before me. My soul, which was strolling in my past, remained disoriented for a few seconds. As he recapped, my eyes scanned the paper. Divorce was approved. Everyone had already put their signature approving the verdict. Only I was left. My eyes stared at the place provided for my signature and my hand scratched inside my handbag in search of a pen.

“Here. Take my pen.” Devraaj handed over his pen to me. I held the pen and signed while my eyes concentrated more on his signature. I felt a slight tremor in my fingers and an inexplicable soreness from within. Divorce was on mutual consent and had obvious reasons behind it. Still, fifteen years of togetherness left many unforgettable memories; good as well as bad for both of us.

“Done?” Devraaj asked while laying his left hand before me for his pen.

“Yeah.” I placed the pen on his palm. He grabbed it, put into his pocket, sniggered and uttered, “A writer and one of the bestselling authors of India, Indrani Roy doesn’t carry a pen in her bag.”

“You won’t change Devraaj.”

“You too I guess.” He concluded the conversation with a smile of feigned politeness.

When I married Devraaj, he was not just another young handsome prospective groom in the matrimonial market. Devraaj Roy, an alumnus of MIT and Harvard Business School, was the booming face of India’s corporate world. With a well-heeled genetic connection, brimful of accomplishments and handsomeness, he was the most desirable bachelor of my time. My not-so-happening life was set on a roller coaster ride. A bungalow in a posh locale of Mumbai with all the luxurious amenities, frequent foreign trips, countless clothes, jewels and accessories and every possible materialistic joy swept me off my feet. However, an emotional connect between us couldn’t find a place. We had our share of joy and intimacy but a sort of alienation lingered between us. Gradually, with each passing year though we got to know about each other’s likes and dislikes, we failed miserably to love. Our marital journey was really weird with no fights, no arguments and no justifications. No demands or complaints. No infidelity or domestic violence as well. Love was provided every nourishment to prosper but it just remained like a dead seed unable to proliferate. Or was it that we both were barren lands?

“When is your flight?” Devraaj asked as we came out to the corridor.

“6.30. I have to check once again.” I replied

“Shall I drop you home? How did you come?” He looked at me and asked. His eyes unveiled his imperishable concern for my well-being. I folded my pout inwardly and smiled at him.

“Speak up. I DO NOT understand wordless talks.” Devraaj raised his eyebrows and spoke.

“I have come by cab. Shall go to our flat…I mean my flat and leave for the airport from there.” Devraaj cleared his throat on my fumbling over the possession of the flat. It was he who always corrected me whenever I referred to it as our flat. Since the day it was gifted, he maintained that flat to be only mine. Sometimes many such memories jostled together and scratched my soul doubtingly; was he always prepared for a separation?

“I shall come to see you off.” Devraaj confirmed while getting into his car. He left and so did I.

Amidst the heavy traffic on the road, my eyes couldn’t reach till the sky. However, I could observe that the wispy white clouds escorting the sun this morning had become stark as pre-dawn. I pulled down the window pane. There wasn’t a drop of rain but the air was humid and smelt of a brewing storm. I was a free soul now, unencumbered from marital obligation, freed financially and unchained from any unwarranted emotions. However cheerfulness wasn’t glued to my heart. As a gust of wind blew across my face, the agony which I couldn’t name a few days ago, breathed its identity to my ears. It was the pangs of separation from Devraaj. Did I take a wrong decision? But I was suffocated in this relationship and so was he. In due course of time it was only reticence that grew between us. Five years back, when my personal diary got into the hands of my editor friend, the homemaker in me was transformed into an author. Pages of my life as a wife under the shadow of an affluent man came to the world as a novel. Even before the ink dried in the printing press, the book became a bestseller in the market. My performance as an author galloped ahead with two more novels hitting the bookshelves of the market with flourishing business. I was famous, recognizable in a crowd and a budding name in the writer’s world. Devraaj was never unhappy with my progress. But I would be lying if I say he was very happy. He was reclusive, oblivious and busy in his own world. When I informed him about my first book reading session, he merely nodded his head with a monosyllabic ‘hmm’ and presented me a pen with a golden nib to sign my first autograph. I was muddled that day and even today. I still did not know what kind of relationship we both share.

I trawled in my memories till I reached home. It took me some time to get my luggage dumped in the car. I was all set to start for the airport and suddenly my mobile beeped for a message. It was Devraaj, reminding me to take a pen as I would need one to fill the immigration form. I was going to London to spend some time with my brother. I was perplexed. My eyes dripped tears. Those salty droplets ran down my trembling cheeks. It was my first foreign trip alone. I never had to fill any such form in life as every essential was taken care of by him. My hands went inside my bag’s last zip where I carried my pen with the golden nib always. And it was still there, intact, unruffled, well-set in its velvet case. As I held the car’s gate to open, the first drop of Mumbai monsoon kissed my hand. At the drop of a hat, those grey pouches in the sky gagged out buckets of water. My tear filled eyes couldn’t capture much of the outside world which was bathing in the monsoon rain. As the bumping reduced in the route I could comprehend my approach towards the airport.

Devraaj was nowhere seen. One part of me consoled that he wouldn’t come but the other part muttered that he would be waiting inside. My watch ticked at 4.30 and I was not left with a room to be fashionably late. I stood at the Business Class counter of British Airways with my eyes searching for Devraaj. Soon I was handed over my boarding pass and other documents. I walked out of the queue glaring at the immigration form and my mobile beeped again for a message. Devraaj again, asking me to wait as he was stuck in the traffic. Almost an hour passed by. With no sign of him, I couldn’t wait any longer. I called him but nothing was audible, texted him instead. In a couple of minutes one assurance message came from him asking me not to worry about flying and to call once I landed in Heathrow Airport, London.

With my mind and soul revisiting my past repeatedly, I remained inattentive towards the happenings around me. I was just gushing with the tide. The clatter that could bring a difference in me was the boarding announcement. I checked my seat. It was 2A. There were only three other passengers along with me in the business class. I was the last amongst them to board. 2B was empty. I looked outside the window pane. It was dark as if the world was painted with charcoal. Rain had stopped but the gloominess was not extinguished. Tiny yellow lights flickered distantly. I heaved in pain, still pondering on my past. The best of our days flashed before my eyes as my mind was stagnant on my divorce paper.

“Madam, please fasten your seat belt. We are about to takeoff.” Her sugar coated mellifluous utterance startled me for a second. The airhostess, dressed in a prim uniform, with all her facial features beautified, looked very engaging. She asked for my handbag to be kept in the over-head locker which I negated with a smile. I placed the bag near my foot. The zipper clasp was open and somehow I didn’t wish to zip it either. The red velvet pouch of my pen was peeping from there; probably my inner being wished to eye Devraaj’s gift in his absence. I looked at the next seat again. Like a small child unwilling to leave her mother and go to school, my soul pined for his presence. The flight took off and my right hand unknowingly pressed on the cushion of my next seat. My eyes turned only to witness the absence of Devraaj’s hand upon mine and his chirpy laughter on my fright. Tears welled up as I realized his permanent absence from my life. I felt as if I was falling from a mountain with my stomach churning, stiffened muscles and a kind of weightlessness. My emptiness brawled before me. Was I free or empty? Did I come out of a trap or strapped myself into desolate nothingness? Could I get relieved from suffocation or from breathing itself? My moist eyes scanned the scintillating lights of Mumbai city from the sky while an impenetrable darkness squeezed the life out of me.

All my senses quivered in fear as the alarm bells clanged; the pilot reassuring the passengers over the PA system that it was a mere turbulence. The cabin lights flickered abruptly. Hundreds of announcements banged my ears but all went unnoticed. All I could hear was panicked screaming from everywhere. My olfactory lobes were tickled by a cauterized smell. Suddenly, the flickering stopped and a blanket of darkness throttled me. I was smothered. I heard my heart thudding in my ears and then a consummate silence consumed me.

I inferred weightiness as if my body was laden with something huge and onerous. My eyes drooped as if reluctant to wake up from a slumber. There was heat all around. I could sense wetness not knowing how I was so drenched in sweat. I tried to lift my eyelid but groaned in pain. Where was I? Slowly as I blinked a couple of times, all I could see was rebellious flames battling with the wind. My senses gathered only to make me realize that I was drenched in blood and not sweat. My eyelashes, which always attracted Devraaj for their naturally drenched appearance, were bathed in beads of blood. My Grecian nose, which according to Devraaj was always meant to hold a beautiful diamond nose stud, was bleeding profusely. My protruding canine, which he always complained of, was hanging with my broken jaw. I tussled to get up but found a big metallic chunk of the airplane fuselage pinning my legs. I yearned to escape as the flames were turning furious but failed to move. I recognized my end. In this piece of anonymous land, with heaps of dead bodies scattered here and there, life could never reach me. I whimpered in pain and dared facing the approaching fire. My half burnt handbag lay nearby and my blood soaked eyes glanced upon it. Amidst the red yellow orange hues of fire, all my eyes could capture was something glittering on the soil. In the dazzling blinding flame of fire, something glistened like gold. It was gold indeed. It was my pen, THE PEN WITH A GOLDEN NIB.