The window on the east – 2 May 30, 2006Posted by silentEcho in Stories.
Next morning Peter waited for her. He was feeling bad about what he had said the day before. He thought that she was angry with him. He waited but she didn’t come. He was sad. He even refused to eat food when the maid served it to him. Every moment he thought about the lady in white. She always said that the view from the east window was superb. Peter had never been successful in getting there and she never carried him. She wanted him to come to the window himself but he never tried with his heart. The fear of falling down and getting hurt kept him to his bed. But today was different. Peter thought differently. His mind was clear.
“Today I will do it and then I will tell her about it when she comes. She would be happy then,” thought Peter.
When the maid went to sleep in the afternoon, Peter began his efforts. He tried to move his legs. He tried to move out of the bed to reach the window. He fell down, cut his wrist at the bed’s edge, smashed his forehead on the floor but didn’t give up.
“Everybody falls Peter. Those who rise, live.” She had said this and this was Peter’s inspiration today. He crawled on all fours till he reached the wall and with a himalayan effort, he stood up! Yes he stood up with the wall’s support and with a wriggling, drunkard walk and a lot of support from the walls and the belongings he reached the east window. He looked out, the blue of hie eyes expecting to meet trees, birds, sheep and what not. But all he saw was a forlorn, forsaken cementry in the distance. All he felt was the cold wind blowing from the east.
She had lied, but why? Peter simply looked at the cementry, hoping against hope that it will turn true to her words. But it remained the same. Sometimes when we are lost in the dakness inside, often there is a silver lining in the dark clouds within us, our hope to stick around. And suddenly Peter felt, as if someone within him told him, that he no longer needed the window edge he was leaning on. Slowly, he turned and started walking in a drunkard’s manner towards the door.
It was evening already and the maid, just up from her sleep was astonished to see him walking. She froze and couldn’t utter a word as Peter started to walk ever so fast. He reached the door, opened it to see the world outside and ran, if you could call it a run. He ran outside the house, on the footpath and found his way to the cementry. Panting, he reached the cementry. It’s enormous iron gates were closed but not locked. He pushed them open and entered the graveyard. The dusk only added to the gloom of the place. As the darkness started to gather, Peter, almost as if someone was drawing him along or calling him to embrace, reached for a grave. A grave different from the rest of them. He sat down on his knees. Tears trickled down his young, unmarked cheeks. The old, unknown and unhealed wounds were healing. He cried and cried, all his questions were being answered now, realizing that the voice was not outside, but was in him. He sat near the grave and wept for a long time.
The moon reached high and new stars crossed the horizon. As the dark clouds swallowed the moon, its light shined on the grave and as the last tears washed the dust off the grave, Peter stood up and said with his head bent, looking on the grave, “Thank you Ma.”