The Tombstone

A Story by Joseph Mathew

The Tombstone

She emerged out of the florist's holding a bouquet of deep red, roses. His favorite. And waited for an auto-rickshaw. A harsh, cold monsoon wind blew, making the shawl of her churidar dance mid-air. She got into an auto-rickshaw, driven by a Rajinikanth fan made obvious by the numerous posters of previous and upcoming movies covering every inch of the vehicle, which groaned and creaked with effort when it accelerated. "To the right" she instructed the driver, whose driving seemed to suggest that he wasn't particularly fond of living. Having gone there many times, she knew every route possible to the cemetery.

She held the bouquet close to her breasts, leaned back and closed her eyes. Occasionally peeping decisively to check whether the driver was keeping his eyes on the road. She looked at the sky which getting itself ready for another huge shower. He loved the rains.

He loved the rains. She didn't. He loved her boisterous laugh. She didn't. He was an artist. She was a scientist. He loved dogs. She was a cat person. But despite all the differences that were miles apart they were inseparable. She had met him when he had moved in next to her house. His entire luggage was contained in a half-empty rucksack. And unlike other artists of his age, he was bald, beardless and surprisingly, well off.

He had asked her out to dinner and had taken her places in the city that she didn't know existed. Magical nooks and crannies, where incredulous

people existed. And slowly it led to marriage. He was an orphan. Car crash. And her family, coming from an orthodox lineage considered it an offense for someone to marry out of their caste, let alone their religion. Her family had never contacted her after their marriage. Even when he died, two years ago.

The auto-rickshaw came to halt in front of the church behind which, was the cemetery. She paid him, and walked briskly to the cemetery, keeping her eyes on the ground, lest she should be stopped by an over friendly nun. She walked into the priest who was talking to the nuns occasionally letting his hands venture where no man has ventured. She looked up embarrassed and mumbled and apology and tried to walk away, when he grabbed by her arm. She noticed a bulge in his crotch, which was visible through his cassock.

"Stop child."

"Yes?" She freed her hand from his grip and started thinking of ways to extricate herself from the conversation.

From the graveyard, the man looked at the scene, as he blew smoke rings into the air. He was sitting on a tombstone, shaped like a crucifix. He smiled as he saw her remove herself from the priest's company by making snide statements that made him retreat back to the amity of the virgins.

She walked to his tombstone, taking no notice of the man, and propped the bouquet against the stone. She knelt down and touched the stone, and pulled back her hand when she felt the coldness of the stone. Tears filled her eyes, and she made no effort to wipe them. They flowed and converged at her mouth.

The man stared at her uncomfortably. "Don't cry." He tried to console her, but she did not hear him. Smoke came out densely from the end of his cigarette. It curled up and dissolved in the air. She rubbed her eyes and got up. She gave his headstone one last look before she left.

He rushed to embrace her. But he passed through her. He tried again. He passed through her. The cigarette in his mouth was smoking furiously as it had been for the last two years. He screamed her name. She did not hear him. He sat on his tombstone and took a deep puff in desperation. "Don't go."