by Tapasya Pandita
Blurred faces. Dean Winchester in his '67 Impala entering my ward. Rancid breaths, laboured breaths. I slip into unconsciousness and back. Cold sways beneath my feet registering succinctly the movement of blood and fluids. Fluids, acids; acids gnawing at my walls. Hot lava ascends my canal, a big burst of burp ,and, my throat is soaked in bitterness. Odious bitterness. Reapers. Are they?
A balmy winter morning in my country. The high hills line the horizon like metamorphosed clouds. I sit and write, like a prince of Serendip. Success is sweet nectar. Only later does it merge with the bile in your soul. I write. The fables of magical trees and lives of the peasants. From happiness to misery, misery to luck ; the crude Aristotle. There is no white and green hospital ward in my sight, no rancid breath, no unconsciousness, no blured visages.
That night I slept with another story in my life. Another bunch of serene white smeared with holy black in my diary. Satisfaction leaped out from my soul and hugged my world. A world that was changing . Was one of my stories going to be my own? Winchester boys ; would they fight the reapers on my head? No. The scythe was set in concordance with the result of a proper motion. The wine soused me and the smoke inhaled me.
A balmy winter morning in my country. The high hills line the horizon like metamorphosed clouds. I sit and write, like a prince of Serendip. Success is sweet nectar. Only later does it merge with the bile in your soul. I write. The fables of magical trees and lives of the peasants. From happiness to misery, misery to luck ; the crude Aristotle. There is no white and green hospital ward in my sight, no rancid breath, no unconsciousness, no blured visages.
That night I slept with another story in my life. Another bunch of serene white smeared with holy black in my diary. Satisfaction leaped out from my soul and hugged my world. A world that was changing . Was one of my stories going to be my own? Winchester boys ; would they fight the reapers on my head? No. The scythe was set in concordance with the result of a proper motion. The wine soused me and the smoke inhaled me.
Aristotle was right. I had celebrated others' catharsis. My life was mine. Life rolls on reversals and discoveries. My body is a dilapidated edifice, a crumbling structure. They put the soul over the body; I need my body desparately. This body is the pen I write with, an outlet to the ink I hold. And , I am back into my bed, waiting to join hands with my end. My stories with their tearful endings. My story with its tearful ending. I witnessed now, my degrading body, my cancerous lungs, my ulcered stomach. The butterflies in my diary beside me had fluttered. A life so beautiful had turned so horrid, all the pleasures giving way to pain. Was my life any different, was my pain pleasant? I don't have divas around me to take me by the hand. This crossing is the same for me, I am no different from those who read or those who can't read. This is death, and, I don't see any light at the end of the tunnel; I am all ignorant of things that will be.
It is a beautiful spring morning with colours floating in the air. There is a crazy ball in my hands, bouncing incessantly , bouncing madly; I am running after it like a rabid kid. This bouncing is the happiness of my life, a delight to my sight, food to my stubborn appetite. This bouncing is so metaphoric. I bounce. I bounce. There are black clouds rolling ; they are coming closer. Closer.
I close my eyes and sleep. It is cold, my feet are out of the blanket. Hell ! , will someone come and set right this foolish thing? ; my anger echoes inside me. The feeble footsteps of the nurse run over my ears, she would come look around, note things down and go back. Sometimes she would ask me if there was anything she could do for me. I had not done anything for myself. She could have been my own daughter. But then she would have seen me dying, not so good for a poor little kid. There are reasons you live your life the way you do. But she would have pulled the blanket down to cover my feet. I had never thought a blanket would trouble me so much I would regret my decisions. I tumbled over pebbles; there was a reaper following me. I sat down under a huge tree. I decided to face him this time. This should not be another gap of nothingness in my life. Rolling blackness came again towards me, I wished this blanket would engulf me whole. And, forever. Inside, I cried for my little diary of a magical, pastoral world. Half of its pages were still pure white waiting to be daubed with my ink. Another time, I said.
It is a beautiful spring morning with colours floating in the air. There is a crazy ball in my hands, bouncing incessantly , bouncing madly; I am running after it like a rabid kid. This bouncing is the happiness of my life, a delight to my sight, food to my stubborn appetite. This bouncing is so metaphoric. I bounce. I bounce. There are black clouds rolling ; they are coming closer. Closer.
I close my eyes and sleep. It is cold, my feet are out of the blanket. Hell ! , will someone come and set right this foolish thing? ; my anger echoes inside me. The feeble footsteps of the nurse run over my ears, she would come look around, note things down and go back. Sometimes she would ask me if there was anything she could do for me. I had not done anything for myself. She could have been my own daughter. But then she would have seen me dying, not so good for a poor little kid. There are reasons you live your life the way you do. But she would have pulled the blanket down to cover my feet. I had never thought a blanket would trouble me so much I would regret my decisions. I tumbled over pebbles; there was a reaper following me. I sat down under a huge tree. I decided to face him this time. This should not be another gap of nothingness in my life. Rolling blackness came again towards me, I wished this blanket would engulf me whole. And, forever. Inside, I cried for my little diary of a magical, pastoral world. Half of its pages were still pure white waiting to be daubed with my ink. Another time, I said.