Anima gets up. Does a few luxurious stretches, mutters, ‘Free at last’, fetches a large, old pillow cover, stuffs the contents of both baskets and the bucket into it, drags it to the door and deposits it outside for the garbage man to take away. About to close the door, she wonders. Shall I keep it in the house and give it to the garbage man when he comes in the morning? But then shuts the door resolutely, changes into her nightclothes and gets into bed.

Sediments rise. The days and nights after Siddharth's monstrous death. The distorted faces that peopled her dreams. Changing faces, always distorted. No sleep. No hunger. Get up. Pace from this end of the room to that, wide eyes blank. Sit down in a chair, wanting never to get up. Anisa's visits in the day. Sharada and Shekhar dropping in to be with her. Feroze's concerned calls. Haridas's insistence—‘Stay with me for a few days. You’ll feel better. Or let's see a film.’ But then night fell, with just her nightmares to fill the house.

One sleepless night she picked up a razor blade and walked to the bathroom. She shut her eyes, the blade at her wrist. The blade didn’t move. She shut her eyes tighter. The blade would still not move. The strength drained out of her. Her hand went limp. The blade slipped out of her fingers and fell to the floor. Anima stood rigid. Then collapsed, howling.

She sat the whole night on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. Am I feeble in mind? Is my will so weak? Do I not love Siddharth enough? Isn’t desiring death when your husband dies the ultimate definition of love? Why did I hold back then? Could it be that the will alone is not enough? Do you need physical courage as well? Do I not have that? Where do those girls of fifteen and sixteen who hang themselves from fans with their dupattas find it? They write farewell notes to their parents, pull up chairs to stand on. They are about to do something they’ve never done before, but they go the whole hog. What pushes them? Despair? Fear of the future? What did Yogesh fear when he put razor to wrist? People had always raved about his work. Finally there is just one answer. Some people want to die. I don’t.