Suranjan hadn’t been able to save Maya; it had only been a fantasy. Maya’s abduction by Muslims had turned him into a madman. He was willing to save her even at the cost of his own life. But he had failed. When, frustrated, he had decided to leave the country – a country where no Hindu was safe, where his beloved younger sister was not safe – while he was packing to leave it, he opened the door one morning to find Maya’s body lying near the stairs. He had screamed at the sight, Maya was dead. He had thought Maya was dead. He had carried her inside in his arms, Shudhamoy had checked her pulse, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he tried to listen for a heartbeat with his stethoscope. Kironmoyee had kept stroking Maya’s cold body. All that Shudhamoy could mutter was, ‘Take her to the hospital at once, she’s alive.’ Kironmoyee had begun to wail at the top of her voice, and Suranjan had left with Maya in his arms, followed by Kironmoyee. Shudhamoy would have gone too, if he had the strength. They had got into a rickshaw and gone directly to PG Hospital. Saline, blood transfusion, strong injections. Maya had opened her eyes and spoken two days later. But they didn’t change their decision, leaving for India as soon as Maya was released from the hospital, handing over their house for safekeeping to a relative. They had never asked Maya what happened, what those men had done. Maya would start crying sometimes, without saying why. Kironmoyee or Suranjan would draw her head down to their shoulder, letting her cry on it, or stroke her back, or put their arms around her to let her know they were with her.
Esta historia es de la edición June - October 2020 de Platform.
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Esta historia es de la edición June - October 2020 de Platform.
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