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Vositha's Blog

~ a story of life, love and other things

Vositha's Blog

Tag Archives: son

“I would have killed myself”

17 Friday Aug 2012

Posted by vositha in Fiction

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

kill, marriage, screwing, son, suicide

“If I had stayed with him one more week I would have killed myself” her friend tells her. She has not spoken to her for a long time, and they were never close friends. She had made it a point to not be around the two of them in the past, just so that their groping of each other would not make her lose her appetite. But speaking to her now, she could realise how the other felt in the past.
She adds, “ he even called me a bitch, asked me why I came behind him wagging the tail like a bitch!” It was weird to hear someone tell all those things to another who had been close to him. “He used to very rude to me, but when he needed me, he was very nice. I was too young, and I did not know what I was doing.”

But she had got out of the misery, she had moved on, and she was expecting her first child. She was happy. “ My husband is not that educated, but he loves me, cares for me, and thinks I am the best thing that happened to him. He does not want to let go of me.”

“ I am lucky that I paid those last thousands for his operation. That was the price I paid to get my life back. He thought I was not good looking enough to be his girlfriend, but my husband treats me like a princess. It ‘s like dying and being born again.”

She smiles, happy at the other girl’s plight. It was good to hear that at least one person was happy, and was no longer emotionally traumatised by her past.

It was also evident that the family genes did manage to make women want to go kill themselves. The villagers tell that his dad drove his first wife to commit suicide, through his affair with the other woman, who later bore his son for him. His daughter in law had considered swallowing a handful of tablets and ending all her misery. Not once, but a few times. It was her son who had stopped her. She did not want to cripple the poor child due to any more than what he suffered.

The circle of life that turned. A dad, a son, and women around them. Plots that thicken, hopefully reaching their end and one day giving sanity to those that be haunted by those filled with insanity. For now she waits and watches where her life be headed, to see the marriage to the woman who screws half his office, him and half the town.

She awaits the day to see her in laws who called her a bad woman, embrace the woman who their son still continues to deny screwing. She waits for that laughter, which she’d have patience to see, the day those in laws behold the truth.

Moments

13 Monday Aug 2012

Posted by vositha in Fiction

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

caring, memories, moments, son, sun shine, wedding

It was a beautiful wedding. She thought as she went through their wedding photos. He and she were both smiling, and he looked the self she fell in love with, minus the beard. She has her motherly look on him, the one she used to have when he was up to mischief, or was acting cute. She wondered how things could go so wrong, and yet things could look so beautiful on photos.
She remembered him pulling out all the pins in her hair, in her sari, and helping her out of the jacket. He had been helpful and caring. Though they had slept in their side of the bed, she staying awake while he had fallen asleep fast.

Life had changed fast, for the best at times and for the worse at others. From either side of the bed, they had merged to hug each other to sleep, and huddle against each other in their sleep and for him to forcibly be woken up from his sleep from her kisses, while he childishly tried to escape from them not yet awaken and half in his sleep. She liked their mornings, where she tried to get him out of bed, while he crawled back on and slept letting her bug him for another two or three hours.

Moments of the past linger, while their baby moved within her soon awaiting his entrance to sunshine. She wondered if his dad would ever see him, whether he felt anything for his son. All she knew was that she would have to learn to live with and without his memories, as time moves on, and hopefully till she has moves on for her sake and her son’s.

For Her Son

02 Thursday Aug 2012

Posted by vositha in Fiction

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

delivery, dignity, finger pointing, son, tears

She had stayed away from the house not wanting to cry all over again. The last time she walked in to get her scan copies off the shelf where he had left it, she had ended up weeping two weeks of withheld tears. She was not in a mood to weep, to feel suffocated, and then end up lying on their bed missing him. She was not going to go through it again.

Walking into the same house, yesterday she felt that she was a stronger being. His father’s speech of South Asian finger pointing to the woman when the man screws around had taught her that life had better things to worry about. He has told her that it was all her fault and that she should not have got pregnant. That good women did not fall into such situations and that what she was living was her fault. He had happily justified not having ever had her over, while his married son stayed at his house while his pregnant wife would be left home alone. The speech was enough to make her come to her senses, to make her see that she was living a life she had chosen out of righteous behaviour to do what is right by the world, and out of love for a man who has not thought twice before he left her when she needed him most by her side. Life was such and she had no more tears to shed for such.

She did not appreciate pity from anyone. She did not need it. She was just trying to make ends meet, to find enough cash to deliver the baby without begging from her in laws “rambutan” money which they seemed to count ten times before handing out. She did not want to curse her kid with the thoughts transferred to the cash when being handed over. One never knew what they muttered when they provided it, and she was not in a mood to go beg for any money from a man who called her a bad woman. Not for her, not for her son. Nor did she want anymore money from her parents, when they had done too much for her and had not being paid their debts. She knew she would earn it herself. Somehow, before the due date and before the baby would be willing to come out.

She could feel the baby move inside, kicking and churning, a happy little kid who would not know his dad. She felt sorry for him, when she thought of how he would wonder why his dad would not come to pick him, or drop him to school. She wondered what her son would say to his friends in school of his dad. She knew one day she would tell him the story of his dad, and why he was not there with them. She knew she would be his mum and dad both, and make sure he would not be sad. She knew it would be not an easy task, but she knew she would make it, on her own, and with her dignity intact.

“Her” Son

18 Wednesday Jul 2012

Posted by vositha in Fiction

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

cravings, Nugegoda, pregnancy, redemption, son, tears

Lying on the floor, at her parents’ living room she dreamt of her baby. The vocabulary had changed from “our” baby to “her” baby, and the entitlement has restricted itself. She always had thought it was their baby, that they would raise the child together, even when he had told her that he was with her, only for the kid and nothing else. But as of now, she had realised that hope for any commitment from those who do not grasp the concept of commitment had failed her too many times. She was not angry with him anymore for sleeping around, abandoning her and the kid, or even the lies he told, she was merely angry with herself for believing in redemption when he had proved incapable of such.

Her baby looked like his dad, in her dream. He had the same expression and the nose, though his eyes were unlike the dad’s. They were more like hers, and he seemed too bored to do anything. That she thought was expected. He had stopped acting hyper for a while since his dad had left, he kicked once in a while, and mostly moved from one end of her belly to another, like a huge lump who could not be bothered. She could feel him when she took her hand over her belly, in bumps across her skin, and occasionally could feel most probably his heart beat. She did not think her son would keep kicking over 40 times, unless he was fed up of being stuck inside and was trying to kick his mum a good deal to indicate to the stupid woman to let him out. A tantrum at a very young age, to be expected too, given the circumstances.

She was yet to outgrow her tears, but had started planning for her kid alone. She had decided on the little clothes that would fit him, the little things that he would need, a cot to be bought, and other things, though at times when looking at them she could feel tears roll down remembering them going through baby things together. But she did not see the point anymore, she did not see why she should sob thinking of a man who had left, and not bothered. Not bothered to check whether his son was alright, whether his wife was alright, whether the doctors’ appointments were met, and whether she had got her medical tests done. But at times she could not help herself, and was yet to gain the courage to forget it all.

It was like she was back to age of schooling, when her parents called up to check on her, to see if she had had her meals, or whether she was feeling alright, whether she had money, or whether she had work on that particular day. Things he had not done since marriage. He has not remembered that his wife waited for him to come home to have diner, and took his own time in getting home pass midnight, when she had out grown her hunger and gone to lie down, waiting to open the gates for her.

Her mum had made milk rice for her. She had remembered that her daughter never mentioned any cravings nor asked for anything. She just kept puking and working, and in the intervals crying over the failed marriage and a man who had told her that he loved another more than he loved her. She remembered how he had asked him to get her an ice cream one day to be refused because there was traffic at the Nugegoda junction. She had cried her way home, and then decided to never ask for anything. Not for ice cream nor anything else. She did not buy herself any clothes for a while, not till her belly really started showing and she could not fit into her pants, or her dresses. Then too she had waited till she had her money, to go pick two dresses that would help her survive the next two months of her pregnancy. Her dad had wanted to come with her, and wanted to buy her clothes, she was still her daughter, though she carried a kid of a man they did not see much value of, but she had refused, knowing that she had cost him enough and more with a wedding, a failed marriage, a house rented and everything else that was yet to come.

She did not want to think of the past, she wanted to move on, but pieces of her life kept flashing through, when least welcome. She remembered when she thought they were happy, and picked him over everything else, though he was throughout feeding her with lies and screwing the other. She tried not to think of those little moments of happiness that lingered, when the rest was all an illusion. She thought of her son who would now know his father.

People tell her she is strong, and that she is not stupid. Their words make no sense to her, at least not at this stage. Some ask her to rethink, to reconsider. Reconsider what? What was she to do? Was she to track him down in another land, to beg him to come back, and be with her and the baby, when he paid no heed to anything, or the birth of his son, and was adamant he did not want to try to make things work.

People ask her the typical question, what will you tell your son when he asks where his dad is? She has only one answer, and that is, that she would tell him the whole story of his dad and her, and how he left them and went away, and how he and her both meant not much, faced with his concern for his own happiness.

“Moving out”

16 Monday Jul 2012

Posted by vositha in Fiction

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

cheating, husband, moving out, son, tears

She looked at the house once she thought would be her home. A house full of memories for the short time they had spent in it. Though he had left, his presence there was felt, with shirts forgotten and other files he had spread around on the floor. She wanted herself not to cry, not to be weak, and not to give into that need for him to be there, but failed.

Her clothes fit into one bag, a green bag he used to take his clothes in when he went home to spend his off days leaving her behind. Folded and crammed in, she managed to fit it all in. Her books she had no strength to carry. She had only two hands and a belly that protruded and blocked her way at most times. Her life with him seemed a few months, a few cloths, a few books and a son left behind.

Their home never had time to become a home. At least looking back she felt that she might have lived an illusion. She believed he would be back, he would come and that they would be happy and their child would make them happy. A child they had decided to bring up and he had wanted to name “Moksha”. Her child he had decided to leave behind, and had made up his mind to not see.

It was late, but not too late to leave, to leave the place where she was not wanted, where tears clung onto her face too often with memories of a man, who made her happy when home, and then turned into a being she did not grasp the moment he stepped out of their house.

She wondered, how things would have been , had she liked a different type of music, had she read fantasy novels, and had she worn more revealing cloths with bigger earrings.. would he have meant his “I love yous”? would he have not cheated? Would their son have had a father and not just a mother who would have to work every moment to give him what he needs, without depending on the world for anything?

She closed the door behind her one last time, and walked down carrying her bag of clothes, hoping one day her son would make her proud, and become a better man where his father had failed.

“Move on”

14 Saturday Jul 2012

Posted by vositha in Fiction

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

faithless, heartless, husband. move on, love, son

Seven months pregnant with a husband who leaves with two words via email “move on”. Move on he says, she stares at the mail for as long as she could, and tries not to shed tears, though they pay no head. He needs to move on, go his own way, he does not want to come back, decides to stay behind, work or go to another country..his plans are made, though over coffee upon departure he says he will be there, and that they will be alright, and hugs her tight with his good bye.

She yields every time, for her love and her child’s kicking at his presence takes over, believe the impossible, tries to trust despite all the stories, and the stupidest lies ever heard. What of education? What of her strength of endurance when facing the unexpected of being abandoned to deal with love, with a certificate singed as married, but with duties never fulfilled. What does one do? Cry, scream or suicide? The latter had crossed her mind, but urge with held several times, each time her heart was broken, with the thought of the life growing within, too scared that she shalt survive with her endless suffering pursuing and a child that she harms through her lack of courage to endure his torments, believed justified.

What of their poor child, who kicks every time his dad comes home or is around, hyper active glad to have him even while in his mothers womb? What of the child, who we claimed we would raise together, and we picked names for, who was supposed to be a little nerd for his mothers pleasure or a player by the age of 12 to his mother’s annoyance, and his dad’s pleasure.

The world has presented her with a full plate, a heartless venture of someone with conscience that registers not his scruples. She has seen the heartlessness, and felt him wipe away her tears, and hold her close as her sobs became muffled into his chest. She longed for a second of comfort though foreseeing hurt, eminent and unavoidable..She has seen and felt the moments of comfort in his arms, and then the hurt of being torn apart, felt betrayed and told that he loved another, while carrying his child. She had learnt to love him, with all the love he claimed he has not for her, and then being pushed into hurt over and over, and then being called insane, irrational and delusional, but those who did not matter to her, but he claimed came first in his life, before her, before the kid, and before the marriage.

She has lived it all, though she still refused to believe. She refused to believe a man could walk away from his son, the way one did, and does, and then stay away the way one planned. She tried to muffle her sobs, from the world, while hiding her tears with the water that poured over her in the shower.

Love means nothing to one who goes through all the pain. Tears cried make no sense, just a waste as they pour down, with traces down her cheeks, and filling her with fear for her son.

A house that reminds of his presence, in every corner, a son that keeps kicking as he pleases, reminding that he remains, reminiscence of a relationship of lies and pretext, conspiracy and faithlessness.

She looks at her house, once a home, hugs his pillow to fill the void in her heart, the space in the bed they once used to lie on, and the hugs she cherished when all else was not left. She drowns in her own sorrow of believing any word uttered, or any affection acted, and the promises that mean not much, but just words told, and when told and over with, forgotten.

The kid kicks on while her tears fall, he keeps kicking unhindered by her sobs she finally lets escape, leaving her pride of courage behind.

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