One last desperate attempt to hold on to the past, that’s what I’ve been trying to do. It’s not easy to let go, especially when you have to accept that you’ve failed at something. But I tried, I tell myself.
This is going to be my last visit to the bakery. I’m dressed for the Melbourne summer this morning: a summer dress with a scarf, jacket and sports shoes that I’ll change into heels once I reach my tiny spot on La Trobe. As always, an umbrella has taken refuge in my backpack: ten years on and I’m still amazed how much work it takes to just get ready for the day. At 7am, the traffic isn’t bad and the trams are running empty. In half hour, the city will wake up to another Monday and the cafes will start buzzing, ringing orders of flat whites, long blacks and chai lattes. The 20-minute walk from home to bakery is the last for me—I have to finally close to register. Property sold, employees recommended, keep cups distributed to friends and family. No more sandwiches like mum used to make, with cheese slices and potatoes. No more chatting up with customers in the wee hours of the morning. No more whining about how hard things are financially. Today is the last goodbye.
If a passerby finds it strange that a brown-skinned woman, not too young to be teenager, not too old to be wrinkled by life, is trotting with tears streaming down her face, I’m not aware. I can imagine the looks, if not see them: smudged Kajal, puffy eyes and cherry nose don’t shout ‘strong, independent woman, ready to take on the world.’ Pulling my jacket closet, I do my best to focus on the stone pathways and not meet anyone’s eyes. Goodbyes are personal, after all, and a ‘Is everything okay?’ from a stranger will probably turn into a rant.
On today’s agenda: wrap up and move on. The first might take a couple of hours; the latter a few months of self-pity.
Oh well, that was easy. Not even two hours. After all the sweat, tears, blisters, it was not even the length of a Bollywood movie to get to the end. Just a box full of sentiments that’ll remind me of what could have been, just like a breakup.
Distractions don’t help when you need to keep your mind off your loss. The small Amazon carton with the happy merchandise is sitting next to me in the Uber and I’ve started crying again, writing this in my Notes. That’s the reason I didn’t want anyone to do this with me: Prateek would have taken the day off; Amber would have skipped lunch for this; even mom offered to hold my hand through it. But my grief is so personal, so dear to me, that I’m going to selfishly cling to it before I let people share it and mourn with me.
Okay, the Uber driver wants to make polite conversation because I’m a water pot right now. That’s not in his job description, is it, to lend me a listening ear and be sympathetic? But he is.
I am telling him about the bakery, how I started it with all the savings Prateek and I had. How I realised my dream of being a baker at 32 and how it took two years just to find the perfect spot. And then it took seven months to decide that it wasn’t working out, that life in Melbourne had changed too much, that it was the end. The ride isn’t long, so now he’s parked the car outside the house, meter stopped, and listening to me sympathetically.
“Zindagi ka kaam hai aage badhna hai. Gaadi bhi reverse leke aage hi jati hai. It takes courage to accept that it’s time to call it quits. It takes even more courage to look at the uncertain future and decide where you want to go when it’s a blank slate. But that’s the positive, beta, it’s a blank slate and you can write whatever you like. Abhi toh kahani shuru huyi hai, panna palto.”
His words don’t change my life. They didn’t make it hurt it any less. But I go up to the two-bedroom apartment, I think about the next steps.
Where do I go from here? First, a grilled sandwich and a warm cup of peppermint tea. Then, who knows?
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