Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6
Memories are like the dogs you find in the mountains.
They follow you everywhere you go.
What do people do after their loved ones die? How do they go back willingly and participate in the event called life? What do they look forward to? Even if they do choose to march forward, is it worth living if you cannot experience the joy of sharing the simple pleasures of life like pocketing a carrom coin or holding a gorgeous butterfly? Was life interesting at all if you woke up one day and walked into it without them by your side, holding your hands as firmly as they can?
Adarsh and I have finally come home. It’s not the first time we’ve walked into a room of emptiness. The problem with death is that you’re surrounded by people all the time, expressing bouts of generosity, but, eventually, they all have to leave, and you’re left all alone in the world. The silence that bubbles up, surfacing with a rush of uncontrollable thoughts, so loud that they’re the only thing you can hear, is an unsettling storm you don’t want to face.
But it looks you in the eye, unmoving.
What do you do with yourself?
He just lays on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I lay next to him eagerly waiting for him to cry. We’re alone now, just me and him, in an alien place we made a home of. I hold his face, remove the eyelash that has lost its way to his cheek, and kiss his forehead. He goes into a trance. I place my head on his chest, unable to sleep.
The skies have changed a trillion shades from then to now. It’s been five days. He hasn’t left the room to the point that he’s stinking. In fact, he is the one that smells like a dead body. He really has been sleeping like there’s no tomorrow, and I haven’t been able to sleep at all. I can never understand why two people would have two completely different methods of coping.
He’s decided to consume one meal. Our friends aren’t allowed to contact him. The sun is about to set, he’s been staring at the balcony for too long now, playing with the spoon in his hand. I know that face- he’s thinking. He’s about to do something. He walks to the balcony and picks up a ladder. A box is drawn out from the topmost shelf. I can’t help but smile.
Before we went to bed every year on our anniversary, we would sit and go through this collection of souvenirs. It was a ritual we followed religiously for 10 years to remember where we were, and how far we’ve come together, to realize that miserable lives can be shaped into happy smiles.
After all, memories are like the dogs you find in mountains. They follow you everywhere you go, might as well embrace it.
I sat beside him, it had been a while since we’d opened the box. He took a deep breath, paused, and then, he dug into it. He found things from a time that felt like past life. A badge from our first pride march, a postcard that read “You’re the sky”, his glossy helmet I had stolen during our college fest for a bet, shells he’d collected for me from every beach he went to, CD’s of Dasettan, tiny chits of terrible illustrations exchanged when I was unwell, a magnet from Thailand, broken license plate of Lakshmi (our car), notes that had cheesy notes, a tissue with an art of a hand holding a heart, a USB cable he had once used as belt, one nude followed by several photographs with innocence brimming in our eyes, personalized diaries so I could write how much I love him, a T-shirt of mine he tore during a silly boys fight in college.
He stopped, and smelled it. There’s something about the smell of a person. It can make you travel in time. He took it all in, he loved how good I smelled. It was before he left for work that he wrapped his arms around me on the terrace, bit my neck and said, “You smell too good for a man. Your sweat must be the special ingredient.”
“Come home soon if you can.”, I said, smiling.
He kissed my nose and winked.
Then, I drank my Chai, slipped and died.
Now, he lays on the floor, with a T-shirt from another era, covering his face, holding it so fiercely, as though he’s afraid it would slip away.
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