HALF - A SHORT STORY BY WILLIAMSJI MAVELI

"Are you cold?" Rakesh's voice was gentle, but to Ammu, it felt distant.

She shook her head, unable to speak. The room, filled with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, felt suffocating.

"Don't worry," he whispered, "I'll take care of you."

His touch was kind, but it lacked the spark of a shared past. Over time, the physical part of their marriage became routine, even bringing moments of pleasure. But with each moment of intimacy, Ammu’s heart would ache, wondering what that pleasure would have felt like with Sajith. She would close her eyes, and her mind would conjure his face, his smile, and the warmth of his presence.

One night, after Rakesh had fallen asleep, Ammu lay awake, the memory of their final conversation searing her mind.

"Why are you doing this, Ammu?" Sajith's voice on the phone had been a mixture of pain and disbelief.

"I can't," she had choked out, "My family... they won't agree."

"So you're just going to give up on us?"

She had hung up, unable to respond. Days later, a message from him arrived: "The biggest pain for us is that the victim of our betrayal is still living somewhere in this world with that same pain." Those words became a permanent scar on her heart. Night after night, she would weep silently, her tears a hot, bitter reminder of the love she had sacrificed. She would apologize to him in her heart, kissing her pillow as if it were his cheek.

Years turned into decades. Ammu had three beautiful daughters. They grew up, got married, and left. Rakesh passed away two years ago, leaving her alone. At 53, her husband's memory had begun to fade, but Sajith's remained as vibrant as ever. The fear of death began to haunt her, and a desperate need to see him, just once, consumed her.

"I have to find him," she told herself, the words a silent promise.

She got in her car and drove the 50 kilometers to his old town. But no one remembered the Christian family who had lived there decades ago. A kind-hearted postman eventually directed her to an old priest at the local church. He recalled the family but regretfully informed her they had moved to a hilly region 60 kilometers away. Hope ignited in her heart, and she drove on.

The journey was a mix of anticipation and dread. She finally reached the church and met the priest.

"I'm looking for Sajith," she said, her voice trembling. "He lived here years ago."

The priest's face softened with a solemn sadness. "I'm so sorry, my child. You're five years too late. Sajith passed away five years ago."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her heart shattered, and tears streamed down her face. She had come so far, only to find an empty space where her love once lived. The priest, a kind man, led her to the cemetery. Ammu stood before his tombstone, the pain of her delay overwhelming her. From her bag, she pulled out a worn, golden anklet—the one he had given her so many years ago. She gently placed it on the cross, a final offering of her undying love.

As she turned to leave, her eyes heavy with grief, the priest's face brightened. A young man on a motorcycle pulled up.

"That's his son," the priest said with a warm smile.