Mrinmoyee Goswami’s short story is a heart-touching lament of a woman who has lost her husband recently and is now bracing to face the challenges of the world, alone.
Every morning I wake up to a day as uneventful as the bygone. However, today I rise earlier than usual. The girls are still in bed. I think of waking them up but then decide against it. Let them sleep for a while. Anyway, he had talked of coming later in the afternoon.
If only my husband had been alive now. Then maybe I would not have to do this. “Brojen’s wife”, everyone called me back then. And now they call me ‘Brojen’s widow’. Though I am unable to acknowledge his absence with conclusiveness.
The girls finally wake up. I hand them cups of black tea. I look at Junali. I am sending her away today. My decision was affixed with a deliberate finality; I had not even asked if she wanted to go. Yet each moment of her impending departure brings in a small measure of pain soon eclipsed by a comfortless relief at the thought of one less mouth to worry about.
Yet I don’t have much choice, do I, considering my current state of penury.