Skip to main content

Chaudhvin Ka Chaand Ho (II)


Ever since I asked him to sing, he would always sing this particular one, 'Chaudhvin Ka Chaand'. I thought it was for his beloved. But no, now, when I look back, I know it was for me. The lady born on a full moon.

I still remember his last bedridden days, how he used to ask me to sing, but I was so conscious about my voice that I wouldn’t. So he would sing for me, the same song, again and again.

The biggest heartbreak of my life was seeing my first love bedridden, with a feeding tube through his mouth, adult diapers, and no control over his body. My man... it was hard. Later, we appointed a home nurse because Ammuma couldn’t handle him alone anymore. Parkinson’s made him hard to handle, it’s a bloody, shitty disease. Even the nurse couldn’t handle it and yes she left.

One weekend after school, Ammuma and I decided to give him a proper makeover. She bathed him. But before that, I shaved his beard....carefully. I had done it before, so I was a bit confident. Earlier, when he was ill but still moving, I used to even wrap him in a mundu. Except I’d always wrap it left-sided by mistake, and he would call me useless :) for those little imperfections. Even in illness, he wanted perfection. He was like that my Mr perfect.

But this time, the haircut, I had never done that before. I gave it a try. It came out perfect, except for a small patch on the right side of his forehead. I think I trimmed too much there. That was the last time we truly cared for him ourselves.

Later, he was admitted to the hospital again... for the last time.

14th September was his and Ammuma’s wedding anniversary. I was excited and asked Amma to cook chicken, not really for their anniversary, but using it as an excuse to satisfy my own cravings. I begged Ammuma to come to the hospital, but she ignored me.

15th September, a Tuesday, it was my parents teachers meet at school At exactly 2:30 PM, while I was in school, a staff member came and said, “You have a message. You’re asked to go to your friend’s or cousin’s house. Your mother won’t be coming for the PTA.”

I agreed and left. After school, I called Amma from the school reception. I heard ambulance sirens in the background. I asked her, and she kept silent and said, “It’s for someone in the opposite ward.” I believed her.

At my cousin’s house, they insisted I eat. But I was so confident I said, “No, Amma will make it for me.”

Later that evening, my Ammuma’s sister came to pick me up. When I reached home, I saw a crowd. At first, I was confused. Then, I got excited... maybe the ambulance I heard earlier was for Appupan, maybe he’s back home. One of the neighborhood ladies leaned toward Amma and asked softly, “Does she know?”

I ran up the steps of my house, eyes searching for my love.

That’s when my Amma held me back, her arms wrapped around my waist, and she said,
“Appupan poi.” 

I stood numb, still searching for my moon.
But I found it to be true.
Where is my Chaand?
I stood there... numb, silent, heartbroken.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Gentle Flame

Her eyes didn’t just look at me, They accused me. Sharp, unblinking, like they were carrying my pain for me because I was too tired to hold it anymore. Her lips moved gently, almost lovingly, but the words were soaked in anger. “How could you forgive them?” She turned her head away, as if facing me meant facing everything I survived. Her voice dropped, quieter now, broken at the edges. “After all they did to you.” I stepped closer. Slow. Careful. Like my past was glass scattered on the floor. My hands rested on her shoulders, they trembled under my touch. “I know,” I said. And my voice cracked, because knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. “I remember the nights I begged myself to stay strong. I remember being hurt and convincing myself it was normal. I remember shrinking so others could feel bigger.” I didn’t forgive them . They don’t get that peace. I forgave myself, for not leaving sooner, for loving people who taught me pain, for thinking endurance was the same as worth. The memor...

No, I Won’t Sit Pretty Just Because You Said So!!!!

  If I'm Comfortable, Why Aren't You? From the time a woman is born, she’s told how to walk, how to talk, how to sit, smile, eat, behave, and even breathe. Society whispers rules into her ears: be polite, be gentle, don’t talk too much, don’t talk to too many men, sit properly, dress “modestly,” smile but not too much, be pretty but not “easy.” Why does the world get so uncomfortable when a woman is comfortable in her own skin? If she chooses to wear sleeveless, she’s judged. If her body is visible, people assume she’s asking for attention. If she talks to men freely, she’s labelled. If she wears makeup, she’s called “fake.” If she doesn’t, she’s deemed “unattractive.” When she’s slim, she’s told to “put on some weight,” and when she’s curvy, she’s told to “lose some.” It never ends. Let me say this clearly, being comfortable in your body, your choices, your clothes, your weight, and your way of speaking or not speaking is your right. You don’t need to shrink for anyone’s c...

Zenobi Confesses?

Welcome to Zenobi Confess,  why that name, you ask?  Well, let me tell you a little story. Zenobia, the Rebel Queen of Palmyra, took on the Roman Empire, conquered Egypt, and almost built an empire to rival Rome itself. Her strength and fearlessness inspired me, though I’m not here to conquer nations. Instead, I’d love to conquer hearts. This blog is where I confess whatever comes to my mind, raw and real. Sometimes I feel like no one around me truly understands me, am I wrong? Nah, baby, it’s just the world that gets it twisted sometimes. I can be a dramatic queen, and I own it. I live for drama, but this space is where I spill my truths, share my emotions, and tell my story, unfiltered. There’s a lot more I want to write, but let's pause here for now. Stick around, because I'm not just here to be an emotional whirlwind, but to drop some knowledge, too!