21 days ago, the man I love left me.
January 25, 1985, at two in the morning, in room 261 of the Imperial Hotel, new Delhi.
Three months earlier, I had gone away to Japan.
He had warned me: too long. He couldn't be sure he'd wait for me.
But I took the risk. I hated the trip right from the start. I worried he would put his threat into practice.
Then I got this letter: his “darling wife” he called me. I thought I had won.
My last evening in Tokyo was one of the most beautiful of my whole life. We had just spoken.
He had it all planned: his plane would land in New Delhi one hour before mine. I had missed him so badly and now I would be seeing him again.
For ninety-two days I had been obsessed with this reunion. When I was boarding the plane, they handed me a message:
M. was in hospital and I had to call my father.
The only explanation I could think of was that he'd had an accident on the way to the airport.
Ten hours went by imagining the worst before I could get hold of him.
At home.
He muttered something about having an infected finger and wanting to come and take me in his arms. I knew he had met another woman.
And instead of insulting him for his cowardice, for that crazy telegram, I stammered that I was unlucky and hung up. It was all my fault.
I should never have gone away. I would never find another man like him again.
I spent the night staring at the red telephone as if paralyzed, cursing the stupid trip.