I flipped the Polaroid photo over and saw the hastily scribbled date. A date in November. Days hadn’t begun to shrink yet and nights were only so long for an insomniac to remain sane. It was a few days after my heart had ricocheted off the walls inside me in excitement.
It was a few days before my heart went quiet. So quiet. While still beating.
He placed his hand on my back, gently turning me around, breaking my reverie. He glanced at the photograph in my hand – an ocean and a sunset, an invisible grave – the pain in his eyes meting out more punishment than I could take in such a small space of time.
I got you something, he says, handing me a perfectly round besan laddoo with a raisin peeping out mischievously. I never told him how I hated besan laddoos; he loved them, like most people did, and bought one (or sometimes two) from the shop every Friday evening. I pinched a piece off and popped it into my mouth, the sudden burst of sweetness causing a toothache, like a pinprick under my jaw. Please finish the rest, I tell him, and I earn a mock scowl in return.
I’m beginning to think you don’t like this little treat, he says. His voice is barely a whisper, it always was. If someone was watching us on television, the volume button would be playing seesaw.
But then, not anymore.
I place the pinched laddoo on the table; the delicate wrapping paper is crumpled on the side like half done origami, and a shadow of a greasy fingerprint is visible. It’s time to put the photograph back into its hiding place. The photograph of the last place we were happy. The last place he was breathing. The last place I saw his mischievous smile, before it became a memory trapped in raisins in sweet treats that he once loved, and I got lost in silences and long winter nights.
One Teaspoon Cellophane 