Page 16 - My Creative Writing Portfolio

16

FOR THE LOST LOVE (A SHORT STORY)

For a week, Kathmandu had been swallowed by a heavy, stubborn fog. The weak winter sun
struggled through the gray veil, and the cold crept deep into the bones, settling like a silent weight.
Yet for Ramesh, the weather barely mattered. Beyond work, food, and keeping warm, there was
little room—or thought—for anything else.

He lived in a dim, ground-floor room of a cemented house, where sunlight rarely ventured and the
air always felt thick. He had come to the city to work as a laborer, saving every rupee to buy clothes
and small comforts for his wife, to one day build a modest home for them. She had long
complained of their harsh life, dreaming of ease and warmth. This time, I will make her happy, he
thought, picturing the clothes neatly folded, the small savings slowly accumulating, the smile he
imagined on her face.

A week ago, he had called her from his friend Kedar’s phone, sharing the news that he could finally
buy a piece of land. That night, after a long day of labor and extra work, he ate a simple plate of
dal and bhat and fell asleep with his dreams full of her and their two-year-old son. In the dream,
they were together in the village, dressed in new clothes, laughing without care, embraced by the
life he longed to provide.

The next morning, he didn’t hear Kedar’s repeated knocks. Lost in the remnants of the dream, he
awoke only to the urgent pounding on the door. Reluctantly, he rose and opened it. Kedar entered
and sat on the bed—the only place to sit—and avoided Ramesh’s eyes.

“Why are you here so early?” Ramesh asked, voice hoarse.

After a long pause, Kedar said, “You need to go to your village immediately. Your son… he’s alone.
Crying for his mother.”

The words landed like a blow. “What do you mean?”

Kedar hesitated. “Your wife… she left last night. Your neighbor called. She went with someone who
recently returned from India.”

The room spun. The carefully built world Ramesh had imagined, brick by brick, shattered in silence.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly—a hollow, empty sound that seemed to mingle
with the fog pressing against the window. I came here to earn money to make her happy, he
thought. What use is money now? What meaning do these clothes hold?

Kedar told him what the neighbor had observed: the quiet departure, the whispered rumors.
Ramesh stared at the foggy street outside the window. For a long, unbearable moment, there was
only emptiness—a loss so deep it seemed to press against the walls of the tiny room. Yet, within
the grief, a quiet resolve began to take root.

“I will go home,” he whispered to himself. “I will care for my son. That will be my love now.”