foetus

She suspected that it was fine really...his betrayal of her.. in more ways than one
She was twenty.. and if he had betrayed her, she felt, in some way., responsible..
He still called her..every day.. and behind him, she could hear voices of his little kids, playing in the swings. She knew there were swings involved, of course, every happy house needed to have swings ... for where else could the children’s desire take as much flight as the feeling of weightlessness at the top of the swing..
I suppose there is a story here.. about how they met.. fell in love.. and how it all went downhill from there.. love.. hate.. perfunctory words so oft abused that they are devoid of any real meaning for most of the populace.. but it was all there.. in this story.. “a love which was more than love”...
It was all there, of course.. but fairly mundane and banal at the time..there had been no intercaste tensions, there had been no backdrops of communal violence against which they fought to win their love back..no families at war.. there was nothing really... just the old story of two lovers meeting and falling in love.. They were both hindus, from the same sub caste.. Nothing poetic about their love..
He called her at nights too..sometimes.. and he could her him pause periodically to take sips of the whiskey, or to take a drag at his cigarette..and then one day, he stopped calling
She later learnt that he had died.. in an accident..
When they found her body the wrists had been cut so deep.. the tendons had severed.. and the blood welled up all over the floor..