The Bridge

 

The humidity of Kochi hung heavy in the air, but inside the house, the silence was even thicker. Vikram sat with his phone in hand, staring at a name that had remained static in his contact list since a decade.

Amita.

Their last conversation had been a somber exchange nearly a decade ago, sparked by the passing of a mutual friend. In the years that followed, the silence between them hadn't been a choice so much as a habit. They were ex-spouses who had mastered the art of becoming strangers.

But today was her fiftieth birthday. A half-century. It felt like a milestone too significant to let pass in silence, yet the weight of nine years made the simple act of typing "Happy Birthday" feel like a monumental risk.

Does she even have this number? he wondered. If she sees my name, will it ruin her day?

He felt a flicker of dread—the fear of a cold response or, perhaps worse, the "Read" receipt followed by total silence. Finally, pushing past the cynicism, he tapped out a brief, warm message and hit send. He immediately turned the phone over, as if shielding himself from the potential rejection.

An hour passed in a blur of restless distraction. Then, the phone on the table didn't just chime; it vibrated with the steady rhythm of an incoming call. He picked it up. It was her.

"Hello?" he said, bracing for a formal tone.

"Hi, it’s Amita," came the voice on the other end. It was startlingly familiar, carrying the same warmth he remembered from a lifetime ago.

The tension in Vikram’s shoulders vanished. They didn't dwell on the decade of silence; instead, they spoke with an ease that defied the passage of time. Amita filled him in on the family—weddings, moves, and milestones—painting a picture of lives that had continued to bloom since separation.

"I’ve actually been thinking," she said toward the end of the conversation, "I really want to visit Kochi while you’re still stationed there. It’s been on my list for a long time. May be you could even guide me around Kerala?" 

“You are welcome!”

Vikram hung up. The marriage was done—a bridge weathered, broken, and finally gone. For years, he’d stood on the bank staring at the ruins, waiting for a revival that was never coming. And, suddenly, a new one had appeared on the horizon.  One of mutual respect and friendship.