Hope is nothing but the paint on the face of reality. The least touch of truth rubs it off.."
Are hopes immortal? Do they never die? They do. My hopes died after a resigned wait of ten years-ten long years spent in rememberance and prospect, but to no avail.
It was a long summer night ten years back in a usual North-Indian family. Preparations for dinner were still on the go. It was the night of my first marriage anniversary as well. No sooner had I stepped out of my kitchen than my husband summoned me upstairs. A sudden call from the Army major swept us off our feet. The major wanted him to report immediately at the military camp base, a two-hour journey from the house, as he predicted an outbreak at the other end. Packing of bags in haste followed soon after. I had no further role to play, no other view to share on the subject than to peep into his dimly-lit room. There he was, ready in his green- brown jacket and trousers, with a shimmer of medals on his proud chest and shoulders. He was about to leave.
As he stopped by the gate to have a last look at us all, he stared into my eyes and tried to fathom the emotions they conveyed. We had not exchanged a single word up to now. He came running back to me and enfolded me in his arms while the brimming tears in my eyes splashed out inarticulate agony. How I wished I could keep him with me forever! But that was not to be. I caught him by his hand and Would not let him go. He wiped away my tears and forced a smile. I could not do the same. "I will return Soon, I promise," and he left.
This was enough to tie me to the same spot each day, awaiting his return. Staring blankly at the horizon, from sunrise to sunset, my face would brighten up as soon as I saw a manly silhouette, but would put on a morose expression when l realized it wasn't him. Then, one day the rough buffeting of the crispy winter brought with it the chilling news of the army's defeat. They told me he was dead. I knew he wasn't. I hoped so. He, his promise and our love could not have died that easily. Ten years have passed since his departure on that long summer night. I can at times see him next to me, holding my hand, in his green-brown jacket and trousers, with a shimmer of medals on his proud chest and shoulders. It took me ten long years to realize how truth always wins over hope, and that I had been terribly wrong.
Hopes die. So did he. He never returned and he never shall.