Rite

My son would have been twenty five today. His mother has arranged a fourth anniversary prayer service. I am not invited.

She found his body, the note too. It did not say much, my life is over.

We managed to keep it off the papers. The police helped with their disinterest. They took him to the morgue, filed his note. They knew about the hushed-up incident in college. They must have hoped that it would not snowball into a controversy. His friends created a scene in college. The Principal asked me to talk to them, and I did. His mother said that I did not care enough.

A week earlier, he was busy with the cultural festival in college. The main show, the rock festival, was on the penultimate night. Every generation has its Woodstock before ending up like their parents. Every year they try to be the wildest. His friends told me that he had been busy backstage. And, that they had seen her stoned or drunk or both, straddling and necking some out-of-towner. They did not get a chance to talk to the disciplinary committee, they told me. The morning after the rock show, she had reported to a Dean that my son had raped her. The college called her parents, not us. They decided to keep it a college matter. My son was expelled. Two days later, he killed himself.

His mother wanted his room to be left as it was. I agreed. She must be keeping it like that even now.

His friends used to drop by in the first few weeks. They told me that the girl had stopped attending classes. But, not for long, she returned after a month. They reported that she was shunned by all.

I wanted to meet her. One of the lecturers who had remained neutral during the in-house disciplinary meeting helped me out.

I met her at the lecturer’s house. At first, the lecturer refused to leave the room; finally, agreed to be in the next room, with the door left open.

The girl stared at me defiantly. She smoked without asking for permission. I took a seat, not opposite, to her side.

I did not know what to say to her.

I know he did it, I told her.

My son kept diaries. He wrote about his dreams, his experiences, just short notes, but long enough. Just fun, that was his point of view: the prankster, the voyeur, the bottom-pinching, the carefree grope. He did not write after the rock show. There was no time, I suppose. I removed those diaries before his mother discovered them. I promised myself that I would cremate that too. I still have those notebooks. He was my son.  

She kept on staring at me. What did I expect: a good cry, a switch-like moment, darkness to light, a break?

I did not tell her about the diaries. I could have asked her if I should reveal what’s in those diaries. That would kill his mother, I could have argued.

The lecturer came back and told me to leave.

His mother got to know that I met her. She asked me why. I shrugged. Even otherwise, we would have separated, I think.