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DIVYANK JAIN
The Curtain and the Clouds
“Look at the clouds.”
“Clouds, really?”
“Yes, there they are.”
“Sure.”
“Why can’t you trust me?” the wife asked, anxiously.
“I do trust you.”
“You never like anything that I like,” complained the hopeless wife.
It was a cold morning in November, the month that marked five years in their marriage, and was also the eighth month of the lockdown due to the Covid-19 pandemic, so they had no business outside, nor inside, and they were running out of money and their interest in anything.
Seated on a couch, they had sipped the coffee together and not talked to each other, before Teena stood up, went to the window to look at the clouds, but Rahul disappointed her with his apathy, again.
He raised his brows, stood up heavily. Without uttering anything, Rahul strode straight to the window where Teena stood. She held the dark blue curtain slightly above her right shoulder, now, not waiting anymore for him to come, and her smile had gone somewhere.
Standing there, Rahul felt Teena’s eyes on the right side of his neck. He turned to her, and when their eyes met she dropped down her head. She looked at the floor thoughtfully, her fist still squeezing the curtain. Before her husband could say anything about the clouds and the sky and the whole scene out there, the curtain fell from her hand abruptly and there were no more clouds, only a navy blue silky sheet hanging wide across his face.
The wife stepped backwards and sat down back on the couch, squeezed herself, buried her head in her arms, and stared at the whiteness of the tiled floor. She lifted her face and in front of her eyes, on the table, was the half-filled coffee mug Rahul had left. The mug had been warm in his palms and he had liked holding it, but now it was cold and alone there in this weather. Rahul wouldn’t drink that coffee for sure, yet he felt bad thinking about it. This feeling would ruin his day, his writing and his stories, he knew. So he made up his mind and raised the curtain slowly as though it was the heaviest thing he had ever lifted. “Yes, you are right. The clouds are beautiful,” he declared.
“I don’t care,” Teena replied from behind, her head down.
Without letting the curtain fall, he turned back, saw the whole of her at once. In such a sullen posture, she looked so small.
“I thought you liked them,” Rahul said.
“Yes I did but you don’t.”
“I just said the clouds are beautiful, didn’t you hear that?”
“But, you don’t mean it.”
“How can you say that?” Rahul pretended to be shocked for he knew that she was right.
“I know it,” Teena replied.
“That’s the matter with you, always.”
“Don’t talk to me like this.”
Rahul looked at her. “I am talking fine. I am fine.”
He tried to smile at her, but Teena just sat there, still not moving or caring to answer him and suddenly he no longer felt fine. There was a time Rahul admired everything his wife, Teena, adored, whether it was the coffee shop with old, greek-styled furniture at the corner of the street in the old city, the traditional Indian print of cushions, the brand new trend of grey in men’s hair, or a teenage movie about a road trip into the wilderness. Teena had an adventurous soul and Rahul loved it. Although he had never participated in her risky activities such as mountain jumping and rock climbing, and she always lacked company, he had admired her spirit to do so. But in a matter of a day, everything changed when the sky was filled with clouds, and the entire city was flooded by the evening. That day, despite the enormous pressure of meeting the deadlines for submitting the content to the magazine where he worked, Rahul preferred to stay at home, alone, but not Teena. Unlike every morning, she didn’t kiss him goodbye before leaving and she couldn’t make eye contact with him when she came back home, all wet. Later, all Rahul was told was that his wife could not make it to their apartment on time because of the heavy rainfall. He was told this a thousand times, and he despised it again and again. The sugarcoated morning messages from a colleague Rahul found on her phone that day were the reason behind all the bitterness between the husband and the wife. Thereafter, Teena left her job, closed down her newly started business of local publication and decided to be a housewife forever. But, this only made things between them worse.
“Yes, that was the matter with you, always!” Rahul blurted, remembering.
“Please,” the woman said, closing her eyes. “Stop it.”
“You started it.”
They didn't talk for a while.
“Rahul!” she looked at him, her eyes now, begging. “It’s been too long.”
“So what?”
“We must stop it. We cannot go on like this. It is painful. We can be fine like we were before.”
“I don’t think so,” Rahul replied.
“Why?” Teena asked loudly. “I do not understand. Why can’t we talk while sipping coffee or eating supper like we used to? Why can’t you say I look beautiful when I brush my hair in front of the dresser? Why can’t you trust me at once when I say there are clouds in the sky?”
Rahul remained silent, then he said, “I don’t know.”
“It’s been three years,” said his wife, “and I have done everything I could to gain your trust back.”
Rahul looked at her blankly, then solemnly said, “You cannot fix it.”
Teena swallowed in disappointment and said nothing. Rahul glanced at her hands and saw her frantic fingers were moving, then shifted his gaze to her feet and saw that her toes were squeezing one another. He had loved her. Now and then, Rahul always loved her. Even standing there at the window and looking at her hair and the edge of her left ear, he wanted to love her, maybe more than ever. But the change Rahul went through was painful and it came very strong and was visible in the way he talked, the way he wrote and even when he remained silent. Each time he had shown his love to her, it made him weaker, he thought. Although he was feeling weak even now, he didn’t move from his place. The wife stood up off the couch, exhaled heavily, and trying not to look at him, put her hands in the pockets of her overcoat and said, “We cannot go on like this.”
The husband shrugged. “Okay then,” he replied and turned to the window. He felt weak when he heard the woman shuffle across the hall to the kitchen and click the door shut. She always does this, he said to himself. He stood still and hard, only shook his head a little, looking out the window.
Yes, clouds were beautifully moving out there over the pine trees, but Rahul would have liked the sky more if it was clear and blue and spotless like the morning of the day before. He had always loved clear things - clear and simple things. And, in such clear weather, you could also open the window glass and feel the warmth of the sun’s light hitting your face, melting down your winter-tightened muscles. He liked the sun very much. Everyone should like the sun and no one should have said that the clouds are beautiful on such a damn morning of a cruel month. The clouds have filled the sky needlessly, he thought. Then he looked down on the floor as he heard a low sobbing sound coming over to him from the kitchen. She always does this, he said to himself, disgustingly. He stared at the cold, grey wood and the knob of the closed kitchen door, and his hand, still holding the curtain, was now frozen. He had ruined the day and wouldn't be able to write anything today, he cannot change it now. And he was too weak to stand there on his own legs. It was bad all over again. He said aloud, “Are you fine?”
“Please shut up, Rahul, please. I beg you. Please,” Teena shrieked in a not so womanly voice that echoed in the kitchen. Closing his eyes more tightly than ever, Rahul shook his head harder. Now, he let the curtain fall. Maybe I should have said the clouds are really beautiful, even when I feel they are not, he thought. He sat down on the couch, his head heavy in his palms, and he looked at the half-filled coffee mug, hatefully. Now, he needed a little wine, maybe some cigarettes too, that would be fine, and he knew the day was already ruined.
Author's Statement
The weather has always played a very significant role in the lives of humans. In this story, you witness how a small change in the morning weather can bring the dark aspect of a couple's relationship with each other to the surface that leads to another quarrel that ruins their day in a couple of minutes. I wanted to write the story in a way that tells very little about their troubled understanding but gives readers the feel of a decaying relationship through each character's stream of thoughts and reactions to the surroundings such as weather, clouds, sun and even coffee mug.
DIVYANK JAIN
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Divyank Jain is a 26-year-old writer currently residing in a small city called Udaipur in India. Although a teacher by profession, he has always been passionate about reading and writing and understanding the world of literature. English being his second language, his stories appeared in English language anthologies and magazines such as Notions of living, Notions of healing, Chariots of rebellion, Radiate lit. Journal, Litstreamagazine, Activemuse, Together magazine, Star-Gazette magazine. Divyank Jain is currently working on his debut novella.