A Knock on The Door and a Memory

 

A Knock on The Door and a Memory

A Short Story

By Dinesh K Kapila 

(written for a contest, had to start with Knock Knock ...)

Knock knock. The sharp rap shattered the silence, jolting her from a restless daze. Who would knock so late ? Open the door ! The voice, urgent, cut through the stillness. Her breath hitched. That voice ……. Unmistakable. She froze, heart pounding, hand inches from the knob. It could not be….

It sounded just like Dheeraj. How could it be? Just could not be. She was wondering, in the meantime, the knocking continued. Sharp raps. Relentless. She stood back a couple of steps. Wondering. Thinking should she open the door. It was late. Very late. ‘Wait’, she shouted loudly. ‘I will just take a minute”. That would buy her time. To think. What did he look like now. It was now more than three decades since they last met. She had moved on and so had Dheeraj. Life, it gives chances, you grab some, some you let go. On an impulse she steeled herself and opened the door. No one. She looked down the small driveway. A car was pulling away, tail lights shining red in the dark night. She just had to get her streetlight fixed, she sighed. The neighbours being away, her corner house sounded too quiet. She quickly shut the door and latched it. Wondering why the bell at the gate had not been pressed. It was clearly visible, with a light fixed above her name etched on a marble plate, Mrs Pramila Bharti.

Walking into her lobby, she switched on the lamp, poured herself a glass of water and her mind wandered. Was it really Dheeraj. After all these years. Why would it be him. Why here. Why did he not call before coming. He had her number on the common WhatsApp group, though she never opened it now. Its members, an eclectic group, once ambitious, lively and young and together at a major industrial hub, before their ambitions took them across geographies. The memories however stayed, they had to. Over the years, Dheeraj and Pramila had only exchanged formal messages, greetings rather. That too when WhatsApp started. Earlier, maybe a SMS exchanged once a year. She had been studiedly formal, unwilling to unleash her mind and emotions, in case they got talking. He was married, Dheeraj, that is, she had heard. And beyond that she had never inquired.

Life had sent them their separate ways and she lived with that. Reconciled, somehow she had put all her vicissitudes of life behind her. She was now the graceful, elegant, sophisticated, well dressed and much loved Pramila Aunty of the neighbourhood and the Club. Deep inside her, she knew Dheeraj was the only one who ever understood her, loved her, felt at home with her feistiness. Way back they made a stunning happy couple, unconventional at that, he laid back, professional to the core, calm and composed, loved his two drinks and a good long chat anywhere, she the rebel, temperamental, blunt and yet with a refined taste for the good things of life. Destiny it seemed had brought them together, but then unbridled ambition can clash with what the Gods quietly plan for you. Pramila, sat quietly, reminiscing, was it even worth it, the decades of relentlessly pushing oneself. Of losing the one person who ever loved and adored her.

Dheeraj had quietly accepted her relocating, moved on and later decided to opt out of the rat race. He moved on to academics, teaching management and his perspective to students at a metro, building up a fan base of his own. Smoking was his leitmotif, a dangling cigarette, a book and an insightful thought. That much had reached her..

Her own life, she looked back, a very successful career, wealth, fame, a failed marriage and a daughter who would not meet her. She got up to place the glass in the kitchen. In the morning the family she employed for managing the house would be back from their village. At least the house will feel alive she thought to herself. Just then the knock at the door again, it resonated through the house. Startled, she felt insecure. Alone, afraid, she hesitated. The bell at the gate, well could it not be seen under the light, Then that familiar voice again. ‘Anyone home, open up. Come on’. Still not trusting her ears, her every instinct stopping her, she moved to the door. She hesitated a second, thought no for a microsecond and then opened the door. A young man stood there with a packet. She felt disconcerted, cheated. ‘Aunty’, said the young man, ‘are you Mrs Pramila Bharti’.

The voice, now softer, suddenly sounded like Dheeraj but not really so. ‘Yes’, she answered, looking at him inquiringly. ‘My apologies Aunty, I know it’s late but its urgent. I have a small packet for you, from my father Dheeraj. By the way I am his son, Neeraj’. She looked him silently, quietly noticing the same aquiline nose and thin shaped body. Inside her, the emotions churned, outwardly, maintaining her grace, as she had through life, instinctively in difficult situations, she gestured him inside. ‘Aunty, I came earlier, rang and rang the bell, there was a drizzle, then I came to the door, since I had to hand over the parcel, I came again, rang the bell, hope my knocking did not disturb you’.

So the bell was not working she realised, saying to the young man, ‘it’s ok, it’s just that you sounded like your father, we were friends once long ago’, her voice studiedly neutral. They sat in the drawing room, he looked around, ‘it’s so elegant, so well put together’, she asked him what he would have, he politely refused. ‘How is Dheeraj’, she asked him, shocked when he said, ‘Dad is no more, cancer, we just completed the rituals, we wanted it to be a very private affair, only his friends in his city were told’. ‘How is your mom taking it’ she asked, only to be surprised when he said, ‘they divorced years ago, never got along’. ‘We are two brothers, Dad brought us up, wonderfully well at that’.

Pramila looked at him as they chatted, hunting for familiar settings, and asked, ‘what is in the parcel, what is it that your Dad wanted me to have’. He looked at her steadfastly, calmly, ‘Aunty, just some old memories by way of photographs and some notes in a diary’. ‘You could have couriered them’, she said, he looked at her wistfully, ‘then how would I have met you, I had to see you once’. There was silence as she absorbed it. ‘Aunty’, he went on, ‘these snaps are now old, Dad looks so happy and absorbed in your company, what happened, what went wrong’. She looked at him, then away, reflecting, ‘we were young’, she said, ‘we thought we owned the world, we thought we could move on and yet stay connected and rooted, it was immature is all I can say now. The distance and pressure drove us apart’. Neeraj looked at her, still very much a lady with poise and dignity, thinking what could have been and was not.

He got up to go, she asked him to sit but he quietly moved to the door, just at the door he stopped, bent down and touched her feet and said, “Aunty, bless me,, bless me so that when I meet the real one, I hold onto her, as should she, this is the blessing I seek”. Tears welling in her eyes, her composure cracking, she simply held out her hands in a blessing as he quietly went down the driveway.

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