CHAPTER II
By the way, those old memories are best left in the past, wouldn't you agree? It's not worth dwelling on them. However, a truly unsettling situation was unfolding in Germany. A strange disease was spreading, and the news was filled with uncertainty and fear. Remi was deeply concerned about her family, who were, of course, living in Germany. She tried desperately to call them, but each attempt ended with unanswered calls, which must have been utterly terrifying.
Communication with Germany had been severed, isolating the country from the rest of the world. No one could understand what was happening, which was incredibly frustrating and created a sense of helplessness. The world was left in the dark, desperate for answers. As a result, some of the most skilled Army officers were dispatched from the United Kingdom to Germany. Their mission was to investigate the situation, uncover the truth, and determine how Germany could have suddenly cut off all contact.
The weight of these events was taking a toll on Remi. The constant worry and the lack of information were overwhelming. Adding to the emotional turmoil, my brother's wedding was fast approaching, set to take place in London. I thought that perhaps a change of scenery and a chance to celebrate might offer a temporary respite. If I could convince Remi to come to London for the wedding, maybe she could find some comfort, and perhaps, just for a little while, she could forget her worries and find some joy amidst the chaos.
My family hadn't actually extended an invitation to the wedding, a fact that stung with a familiar loneliness, yet I couldn't shake the insistent pull, the desperate need to be there. So, with a mix of trepidation and determination, I convinced Remi to accompany me, a silent promise of support in the face of what I knew would be a complex reunion. As I stepped into the bustling wedding, a wave of conflicting emotions crashed over me. Then, I saw my mother's face, and a surge of relief washed over me as her eyes lit up with a joy that mirrored my own unspoken longing. My father's expression softened with a tenderness that spoke of forgiveness and acceptance, and a fragile hope bloomed in my chest.
But then, my gaze landed on Anand, and the coldness in his eyes, the barely concealed disapproval, pierced through me like a shard of ice. The familiar sting of his judgment, however, barely registered in the face of the overwhelming emotions swirling within me. I was caught in a whirlwind of bittersweet joy, a deep ache of belonging that I hadn't realized I was missing, a sense of completeness that had been fractured for far too long. The familiar faces, the shared laughter, the echoes of a past that both comforted and haunted me, filled a void I hadn't known existed. My father gently urged me to return to India, his voice laced with a mixture of hope and concern, a plea that resonated with a part of me that still craved the comfort of home.
Yet, a knot of fear tightened in my chest, a silent scream of defiance against the pull of the past. I didn't want to go back because perhaps I was terrified of confronting myself again, of facing the truth that I had tried so hard to bury, the truth that I had left far behind. The truth that whispered of mistakes made, of paths not taken, of a self that had been lost and perhaps, never truly found. The thought of returning felt like a descent into a labyrinth of shadows, a journey I wasn't sure I was ready to undertake. I stood at the precipice of a decision, the weight of my past pressing down, the uncertainty of my future stretching out before me, a canvas of endless possibilities and hidden dangers.
My brother, Anand Jha, was a manager at Microsoft, and honestly, I couldn't be prouder of him. He earned a fantastic salary and had built a really impressive life for himself. Because of his success, he found a wonderful girl, Sakshi Singh, and they seemed perfect for each other. They had an arranged marriage, a tradition we all knew, but from the outside, you'd never guess. They were so comfortable, so in love; it was a beautiful thing to witness. They truly found a home in each other.
Then there's my sister, Rahi Jha. She's a technical engineer, and she's incredibly successful in her field. She's always been so driven and ambitious, and it's paid off handsomely. Our whole family is blessed, really. We all work hard and have built comfortable lives. Her husband, Mithlesh Jha, is also a technical engineer, and they are a perfect match. They share the same passions and drive. Rahi also had an arranged marriage, and watching her and Mithlesh together, so happy and in love, filled my heart.
Growing up, I always knew the order of things. In our culture, it's always the elder sister's wedding first, then the younger ones. But now, as I see my siblings happy, I find myself at a crossroads. The thought of marriage, once a given, now feels different. Seeing their happiness is wonderful, but I am not sure it's the path for me.
The evening news was a ritual in our household. Every night, the entire family, including Remi and me, would gather in the hall, the flickering screen casting long shadows as we watched the world unfold. Tonight, the news was particularly grim. A report came in that sent shivers down our spines: all the Army officers dispatched to Germany had perished, except for one. He was the sole survivor, miraculously returned to the United Kingdom, but in a state that was beyond description.
He was a walking nightmare. His body was a canvas of raw, exposed flesh, as if some monstrous beast had torn at him with savage claws. Blood stained his uniform, and his eyes, wide with a terror we couldn't comprehend, were vacant. He couldn't speak, trapped in a silent scream. We watched, a mixture of pity and dread churning in our stomachs, as they rushed him to a hospital, hoping for a miracle. Days turned into weeks, but there was no improvement. The officer remained a broken shell, a testament to some unseen horror.
The news channel, determined to uncover the truth, sent a reporter and her cameraman to the hospital. We leaned forward, holding our breath as the reporter sat with the officer, the camera trained on his gaunt face. We strained to hear every word, desperate for answers. Then, the unthinkable happened. The surgeons emerged, their faces etched with sorrow, and delivered the devastating news: the officer had passed away. The cameraman, in a final act of respect, focused his lens on the officer's lifeless form.
Suddenly, the scene dissolved into chaos. The officer, in a final, desperate act, lunged at the cameraman, his movements jerky and unnatural. A scream pierced the air, followed by a sickening thud. The feed cut out abruptly, leaving us in a stunned silence. The screen went black, and the only sound was the frantic beating of our own hearts. What had happened? What had he seen? What had he become? The questions hung in the air, unanswered, and the fear lingered long after the news had ended.
The air in the house crackled with an unseen energy. This was terrifying. My family, usually a picture of calm routine, was in a frenzy of hushed whispers and worried glances. They huddled together, their voices a low murmur as they speculated about what could have possibly happened. The source of the fear remained unknown, but its shadow had fallen over us all. Remi, her eyes wide with a terror that mirrored my own, was visibly shaken. Her face was pale, and her hands trembled as she clung to the edge of the table. I knew what was truly frightening her; she was consumed with worry about the safety and well-being of her family.
My father, a man whose kindness was as unwavering as the morning sun, stepped forward. He wrapped an arm around Remi, his voice gentle as he said, "Remi, don't worry, everything will be fine. Believe in God." His words were meant to soothe, to offer a lifeline in the sea of fear, and I saw Remi desperately trying to grasp onto them. She wanted to believe him, to find solace in his unwavering faith, but the tension in her shoulders and the tremor in her voice betrayed her struggle.
My mother, ever the pragmatist, echoed my father's sentiments. She went to Remi and said, "Remi, please don't worry, everything will be fine." Remi managed a weak smile and offered a quiet "Thank you" to both my mother and father before retreating to her room, the door closing softly behind her, shutting her away with her fears. I understood Remi's distress intimately. I saw the pain in her eyes, the way her lip quivered, and I knew the depth of her sadness.
My mother turned to me, her expression a mixture of concern and expectation. "Sam, go and talk to Remi, calm her down, and tell her everything will be okay." In her mind, Remi was my girlfriend, a belief I had done little to dispel. I sighed, "Mom, Remi is fine; she just needs some time alone to cry and work through her sadness." My mother, ever the romantic, responded with a playful jab, "Sam, you are such a girlfriend who can't take care of her girlfriend!" I couldn't help but smile at her misunderstanding. "Mom, Remi is like my sister to me; she is not my girlfriend. There is also an age gap between us; she is 22, and I am 25; she is the age of Anand." My mother's eyes widened in genuine shock. The idea that I was not in a relationship, coupled with the perceived "wasted" time, seemed to have thrown her for a loop. "If you don't even have a girlfriend, then why don't you get married?" she asked, the question laced with a mixture of concern and a hint of gentle pressure. I offered no response, the weight of the conversation pressing down on me. I simply turned and walked out to the garden, seeking the solace of the cool night air and the quiet rustling of leaves.
To be continue...