The Tender Moon - Vasant Vahokar, Nagpur

He switches off the table lamp, lights a cigarette, and sits quietly in the chair. A dull ache lingers behind his eyes. He hopes the cigarette will lighten the heaviness in his head, and so he takes slow, deliberate drags, releasing plumes of smoke into the dark. The bedroom is shrouded in blackness, punctuated only by the glowing red ember of his cigarette. From his chair, he watches her. She is sprawled across the bed, a chaotic landscape of limbs. She has started to put on weight recently, he’s noticed. She has fallen asleep in her saree, not bothering to change into a nightgown. Her hair is a mess across her face, the on her forehead smudged. In these moments, she looks like a small child, lost in a deep, heavy slumber, her eyelids thick with sleep. He stubs out the cigarette, crushing it under his foot. He takes a sip of water from the glass, rinses his mouth, and slides the bolt on the door. He lies down on the bed beside her, one arm under his neck, the other resting on his head. His body is exhausted, but sleep remains elusive. He can feel the warmth of her breath, slow and rhythmic. The gentle heat is comforting, and eventually, his eyes drift shut. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. Sleep stirs him, but his eyes are too heavy to open. A sense of incompleteness, of something left undone, hangs in the air. Slowly, awareness returns. He feels a familiar touch. One of her hands is draped across his body; the other is gently tracing patterns through the hair on his chest. He knows her little tricks, her affectionate habits, she uses to get what she wants when she needs it. He recognises this gesture as one of them. But he doesn’t respond. He lies still. No tremor runs through his body. His mind feels cold, like a blanket soaked in damp wool. Her hand continues to wander for a long time. Now, she is staring intently into his eyes. For some reason, he finds it unbearable. He brushes her hand off his body. He takes her other hand—the one on his chest—in his, gives it a reassuring squeeze, and says in a thick, sodden voice, “Go to sleep now.” With a calculated indifference, he turns onto his side. The cot groans and falls silent. She feels as if she’s been slapped. Humiliated, she lies there, motionless. The fire in the pit of her stomach has been extinguished. The burning embers beneath her ears have turned to ash. Her entire body feels as if it has melted into wax. She lies still until her back and the nape of her neck begin to cramp, then she, too, turns onto her side. He on one side. She on the other. Outside, between two tall palm trees, hangs a crooked moon in a clear sky. Sipping his tea, he listens for any sign of her. A long time passes in silence. It’s half-past nine by the time she has finished her morning chores and is ready. He doesn’t feel like eating, so he tells her, “Just bring me a cup of milk.” While he waits, he packs his papers into his briefcase. He desperately wants her to say something, but she remains quiet. She places the cup of milk before him, pauses for a fraction of a second, and disappears back inside. he thinks. His desire to drink it vanishes. He picks up his briefcase, goes out, and starts the car. As the engine’s roar grows louder, she appears at the main gate, but by then, his car has already turned onto the main road. He is gone. She folds her arms on the gate and rests her chin on them, standing there, completely numb. The house behind her is in disarray. She has no will to tidy it, no desire to touch anything. Her mind is as cold as a dead coal. She sits down on the steps outside. The breeze picks up, blowing with a new intensity. A sparrow makes a pointless trip from one end of the yard to the other and comes to rest in front of her. Her eyes begin to well up, and tears start to fall. A short while later, she hears the squeak of the gate. She quickly wipes her eyes and adjusts her saree. Just then, Bobby, the housemaid, comes and stands beside her. Bobby says nothing; she is already late for work and stands with a look of guilt. Seeing that no one is scolding her, she starts to head inside, but a voice stops her. “Bobby!” Bobby turns and stands before her again, her heart pounding, her face fallen, expecting a volley of reprimands. “Bobby! Sit down. Where are you coming from now? You’re late, aren’t you?” she asks. Bobby neither sits nor answers. “I said, sit down… come here.” Bobby hesitantly comes and sits on the step at her feet. She begins to bite the nails of her left hand, her head bowed. Her brownish, unkempt hair plays freely in the wind. The woman moves down one step herself. Her fingers begin to run through Bobby’s grimy hair. Bobby becomes a light, floating flower on a branch of affection. The mischievous sparrow has flown away and now rests on the acacia tree beyond the compound wall. The sun grows stronger, and the shadow of the main gate shrinks, pulling back toward the house. When Madam Rajadhyaksha summons him over the intercom, he gets up reluctantly. He goes into her cabin and sits down opposite her. For a long time, she studies him, trying to communicate with her eyes, but seeing his vacant mood, she composes herself. Neither says a word. Mrs. Rajadhyaksha thinks. After all, she is his boss. But he remains impassive. Finally, she has to be the one to start. “Are you not well? You’re just sitting there, not saying anything…” He lifts his head. She is looking directly at him. For a moment, their eyes meet. He looks down again. Mrs. Rajadhyaksha presses the bell and calls for Ramesh, the peon. She orders tea and buries herself in the papers on her desk. He continues to sit there, silent. Ramesh slides the door open, places two cups of tea on the table, and leaves. Mrs. Rajadhyaksha looks up. He is still sitting in the same way. Numb, lost. “What on earth has happened to you?” she asks, pushing a cup of tea towards him. Then, with a touch so light it’s barely perceptible, her fingers brush against his hand. “Here. Drink your tea first.” He finishes the tea as if it were water. Madam takes slow, measured sips, trying to read his face. There is no response. His presence becomes unbearable to her. She pulls a file towards her and says dismissively, “You can go now. We’ll meet at the club tonight. For sure.” He gets up, opens the door, and walks out. The afternoon begins its slow descent. The day has left a thick layer of weariness on him. He feels shattered. There is still time before the office closes, but his mind isn’t in his work. Without a word to anyone, he leaves, gets into his car, and drives. A group of small children is playing near his gate, their games in full swing. Their innocent play creates a rainbow in his mind. Just then, the doctor’s son, Tony, runs up to him and clings to his waist. “Uncle, you’re home early?” “Yes, son,” he says, running his fingers through Tony’s hair. He pulls a bar of Cadbury’s from his pocket and places it in the boy’s hand. “Uncle, Aunty went out. She took Bobby with her,” Tony informs him. His eyes dart to the door. It’s locked. The seven colors in his mind turn to pitch black. The rainbow collapses. Reluctantly, he opens the gate, parks the car, and takes out the latchkey from his bag to open the door. Without turning on the lights, he sinks into a chair. The house is a mess. The terrible realization that the house had never truly become a home rears up like a cobra’s hood, hissing. He feels a surge of panic and stumbles towards the bathroom. Looking carefully in the mirror, he notices that the stray white hairs in his beard have now conquered a whole corner. Yet, the patch of white only serves to accentuate the soft blackness of the rest of his beard. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced. Drawing closer to his own reflection, he unconsciously begins to whistle a tune— (Oh foolish heart, what has happened to you?) He feels as if he has shed an old skin, renewed. In the same rhythm, he opens the fridge, pours a peg of whiskey, and downs it in one go. The sun has set. He stands in the doorway to welcome the twilight. But no… the darkness might begin to play its cruel games, seeping into every pore… Before that… before that… —Oh, no. His car is on the road again. At the large roundabout, the car slows down, and as he turns, he suddenly sees her. Carrying bags, looking tired. Alone. He thinks he should stop, give her a lift home. But then he remembers the soured milk from the morning, and the fact that she hadn’t called him even once all day. He accelerates. She doesn’t notice him, lost in her own world. Like the evening itself. He drives aimlessly for a long time, chain-smoking cigarettes. Then, reluctantly, his car begins the ascent to the club. There’s nothing happening at the club today. Just the usual crowd, nursing their bottles and muttering. He doesn’t greet anyone and sinks into a sofa, sprawling out. Alone. This drinking, this babbling, the curses, complaints, the crying, the affairs—he is utterly sick of it all. But he can’t seem to escape it either. Trapped in this bizarre state of mind, he downs his first peg. Madam Gautami Rajadhyaksha is watching him. She knows his state of mind. She waits, expecting him to come over, to talk to her, to at least greet her. She hovers nearby, making meaningless small talk with whoever is in front of her. Her mind isn’t really there. What’s the point of these formalities? She is impatient—for him to open up and come to her. But she cannot afford to go to him and stroke his ego. Not right now. A sea roars around him. Its thunderous sound rises in his mind and body. Rajadhyaksha is still hovering nearby. The whining of the sycophants around him begins. In the devastating ocean of loneliness, peace has long since turned traitor. He is no longer himself. At some point, he loses control. The glass in his hand shatters against a nearby flowerpot. He screams, unhinged… “SO YOU BI—” The boats of the petty men tremble. The lambs scatter in fear. “Bishu!” Rajadhyaksha rushes to his side. She steadies him, supports him with her hands. He is spiraling, but there is magic in her touch, in those hands that hold him up. He begins to sway like a swing. “Let’s go now,” she says. Ignoring the crowd, she leads him outside. He slowly comes to his senses. He pats her on the shoulder and says, “Sorry, Mad…” She doesn’t reply. He starts the car, and the headlights cut through the darkness. She slips gracefully into the back seat. The car speeds away, conquering one turn after another. She is dozing at the gate, her arms folded on it. He lets out a sharp, piercing honk. She jolts awake, startled, and quickly opens the gate. He parks the car. All the lights in the house are on, blazing brightly. The living room is aglow. Next to the television, a large green candle burns with a serene, meditative flame. An overwhelming emotion washes over him. The sound of a from the TV… a new bride playing games in the intimacy of her wedding night. He washes up, changes his clothes, and stands before the mirror again, conversing with himself. As he hums, admiring his own reflection, another form merges with it. A pair of arms encircles him from behind. “Shanti, you…” is all he can manage to say as he turns to face her. It is her… radiant Shanti… his companion. “I was wrong… I’ve always been wrong… Bishu,” the words escape her, choked by a sob. He can find nothing to hold onto—except her. And then, behind a closed door, a heaven begins to take shape, beckoning to him. High above the two palm trees, it hangs—the tender moon. - Vasant Vahokar, Nagpur (This article is the translated version of the original story कोवळा चंद्र written by Vasant Vahokarpublished in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 ) https://youtu.be/er4rIhcIE8k