For reasons known only to fate, Dr Maharaj once again came into my life at Christmastime. It wasn’t at a Christmas party - I’d stopped attending those long ago - but somewhere altogether more poignant. Holding a bag of Indian takeaway, I pushed open the door to leave and came face to face with him. He was holding his umbrella stiffly against the rain. He looked down at the bag.
“Chicken korma,” he said.
I nodded, unable to get any words out.
“You heard about Mr Patel?” he said.
I nodded again. “A shame. Made it into his nineties, though. Entresto, eh? Wonder drug.”
“You’ve fallen behind. There are better cardioprotective therapies now,” he said, smiling.
I bit back a retort about therapy. “How… how have you been?”
“I made a mistake,” he said. “I’ve regretted it every day for ten years. I understand if you never want to see me again, if you’ve moved on. But if there’s still a chance for us… if there’s a chance for me to be myself again, I have to try. Better late than never.”
“And your parents?” I said. My heart pounded in my throat.
“They’re dead,” he replied.
I don’t know how a relationship blooms again after years of neglect. Once, we’d grown something pure and full of life, carefully watered and treasured like the most precious thing we owned. When it was cut down at the stem, its gentle, tentative growth faltered. But I knew the roots remained. And I quickly began to feel - more fervently than before - that this was the man I loved, the man I needed most. I was even willing to forget that he’d waited for his parents to die before coming back to me.
the story is from mr.Shuvayon Mukherje
on blog.reedsy.com
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