The Sound of Silence
On Friday, at 3:07 pm, two events occurred. The clock stopped. And Hari died. Both went unnoticed for some time.
Since his wife’s demise a decade ago, Hari had faded into the shadows. At first, children, friends, and neighbours dropped by, bringing food and conversations. Then came silence and parcels left at his doorstep. Eventually, nothing.
His world shrank to four walls. His armchair by the window became his tether to life. Outside, life bloomed and withered. Inside, time sagged like his limp khadi kurta, familiar and heavy.
He read and re-read the same books, brewed insipid tea, and lay on the armchair for hours. Even though he never watched the television, it blared non-stop, just because the sound of silence terrified Hari.
But Hari never complained. With his partner of five decades gone, there was none truly his. His eyes, that sparkled on seeing her face, dulled to buttons.
His children mistook his silence for contentment. But ennui, despair’s quieter cousin, does not scream. It creeps in slowly—into the marrow, the breath, the bones—settling like fine dust.
By the time death came, it didn’t knock.
It crept in through the open door.
***
1 comment
A story with a sharp, piercing core.
Well written. All the best.