By Megha Nayar
Had she really loved her husband? They were unsure. Widows usually collapse like buildings, not hold up like mountains. This one looked only mildly aggrieved. Sombre but not broken.
She knew they were perplexed. It was amusing.
They would soon leave, and she would be on her own. Enveloped by silence again, but this time, the happy kind.
To them, her life was over. To her, it had only just begun.
She was going to dance. Paint. Meet friends. Laugh.
After three decades sacrificed at the altar of his unrelenting indifference, she wasn’t exactly mourning today. Rejoicing, rather. About time.
“I write because it is the only kind of validation I know.” – the writer