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TWILIGHT TREMORS

Kamlesh Tripathi

    Rita drew the curtains of her room while gazing at the setting sun sinking below the horizon, as if quietly closing a chapter of her own life. In that lingering gaze, she caught the first twinkling stars and the scattered lights amid the rolling hills of Shillong, once called the Scotland of the East, from her home in Laitumkhrah.

   Twinkling lights…. perhaps, that was all that had remained, after she had decided to give Griffith a miss.

    Today, Griffith was flying back to Melbourne from Guwahati. By now, he was likely airborne, cutting through clouds with pleasant memories. He had entered her life late, yet in that brief span, they had shared moments of rare warmth. At times, she wondered, was it a gift or a gentle disruption? Should she move forward with him, or retreat into the life she had carefully built?

    A practising doctor and a lifelong bachelor, Griffith had come into her world when she had long accepted solitude. After her husband’s passing, Rita had lived alone, her children absorbed in their global careers. Yet Griffith’s presence had stirred something within her, making her feel alive again, almost defying the quiet onset of age.

    He was attached to a clinic in Shillong, often visiting for missionary work, having seen life closely through service to the underprivileged. They had met at the library of the Shillong Club, united by their love for books. He had proposed, gently but sincerely. Rita, however, had chosen friendship, deep, meaningful, but contained.

    Rita herself was shaped by books and music. A Loreto Shillong alumna, she carried literature not on her shelves but within her being. It guided her silences, her reflections, and her sudden flashes of understanding. Music softened the edges of her loneliness.

    From Pride and Prejudice, she had learned discernment, the art of seeing beyond appearances, much like Elizabeth Bennet. The writings of Rainer Maria Rilke had taught her that solitude was not emptiness, but a sacred inward journey. William Shakespeare’s Hamlet lingered within her. It question, “To be or not to be”, echoing through her own dilemmas.

    And then there was the quiet surrender of “Que será, será,” popularised by Doris Day… a gentle acceptance of life’s unpredictability. The haunting transformations of Franz Kafka unsettled her, while the fear of the unknown, echoed in The Exorcist, sometimes mirrored the tremors of the earth beneath Shillong.

    Reading was not an escape. It was her way of becoming.

    Yet, even with her disciplined life, her fitness routines, her careful financial independence, her writing for newspapers, there lingered a faint despondency. Her children, one in Bengaluru and the other in the UK, belonged to worlds far removed from hers.

    Griffith had invited her to Australia for a long stay. She had prepared for it, even reached Guwahati airport, but at the final moment, something held her back. She returned home, choosing the familiarity of her inner world over the uncertainty of a deeper bond.

   She explained her decision to Griffith later. She could offer friendship, but not a life intertwined. He understood. And life carried them in separate directions.

   Days settled into months.

    Rita returned to her rhythms: morning exercise, quiet writing, walks through Police Bazar, cups of hot tea against the Shillong chill, and occasional visits to the Ward Lake and Shillong Club. Books once again filled her hours, though now, at times, a thought of Griffith would slip quietly between the pages. The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet touched her, and the tenderness of Dr Zhivago softened her.

    Six months passed in this gentle solitude.

    One winter evening, as she sat with a cup of tea, the doorbell rang. Her maid had left for the day. She walked to the door and asked, “Who is it?” There was no reply. She hesitated, then opened it.

    Griffith stood there.

    In his hands was a bouquet of white roses, her favourite. A small placard read: “For Rita, my bestest friend”.

    For a moment, she simply looked at him, as if unsure whether he belonged to memory or reality.

    “How…?” she began.

    He smiled, a little uncertainly this time. “Since you chose not to come to Melbourne, I thought I would come to Shillong. I’ve found work here. I’m… here, if you want me to be. We are both alone, Rita. Perhaps life is not about choosing between solitude and companionship, but finding a way to hold both.”

    There was a pause, soft, unhurried.

    The twilight outside had deepened, but something within her shifted, almost imperceptibly. For once, she did not search for meaning in a book, nor weigh her decision against borrowed wisdom.

She stepped aside.

And let him in.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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