Streetlights appear unusually faint through my window; I really should have slept better last night. Wake up! shouts someone from a distance, but I am too exhausted to shout back. My eyes half shut, scattering all light that reaches my pupil, cant perceive which part of the town I am in, a vague sense of time tells me I should be home soon, since I have been traveling for a long time. The lights get dimmer, falling now on nothing else but the road divider, leaving everything else pitch dark. I am breathing too loud, disturbing the state of tranquility I have found, so I mellow down, getting slower, calmer, until I am perturbed no more by the sound.
There are too many in the car; they will drive me to school, so I can drowse off for a while. But, I am getting really late, its already dark, and the seat next to Bela's would already be taken, the school perhaps might be over, why don't they just let me sleep instead? I hope the Maths teacher doesn't come today, else I will have another note in the remarks page of my diary, for I slept when I should have done my homework.
There it is, the school building looks so different, I remember it being brighter the day before, and the smell of sterilizer has never before been so strong. My white canvas shoes get soiled as I playfully climb over a crushed sandstone mound, still wet with yesterdays rain, on my way to the classroom. Rubbing my shoes, red as blood now, against an Ashoka tree, it occurs to me that its Thursday, and I should have worn black shoes and brown uniform today. Nevertheless, dragging my feet on the floor to clean the sole, I walk ahead, and notice kids running around in white shorts and canvas shoes in the basketball court. A fortunate change in code I did not know of, I think, while I cross the court to reach my class, and sneak in to the seat next to Bela's, but cant find her. I look around for her, when an extremely bright light blinds my dilated eyes, and she walks in through the door, straight towards the fire altar in the center of the room. She looks grown up, by around twenty years in a day, but I recognize her, almost with precognition. A man in saffron, perhaps a priest, waits for her near the altar, and as soon she reaches there, he animatedly starts talking to her, pointing towards me repeatedly as he speaks. The voice doesn't reach me, and I don't leave my seat to avoid being asked about homework by the Maths teacher.
I hear shouts of "V.P. Singh Hai Hai " as somehow back again in the car, I am being driven somewhere, probably because I slept again. A stone strikes the wind screen and shatters it, hitting the Maths teacher on his head, and there's blood all over.
Look at him, says someone in an unquiet voice, he has lost so much blood that he is completely pale; and his pulse has become so feeble. Will he live? another anxious voice inquires. Perhaps not, answers the first, not unless we get to the hospital in 10 minutes; if we do, he has a 10 percent chance. Did anyone answer the phone? Someone named Bela called on his phone, and I have asked her to tell his folks to reach the hospital. He is opening his eyes, do you hear me? You will be alright, just stay calm, try not to sleep, your family will be with you shortly.
Father arrives outside the operation theatre, soaked in rain, taking stairs all the way to the third floor in his overt excitement. How about Vrishti, if its a girl, he asks and lets a few rain drops fall out of his raincoat pocket. With moist eyes, Bela releases Vrishti from the comforts of her bosom and with slight apprehension hands her over to me. Trembling at first, my longing hands meet their destiny in her soothing touch, and as an abjurer of divinity, I struggle to make sense of what I feel. Then she smiles, and the spontaneity of it breaches the periphery of all emotional restraint I have ever used, my eyes well up.
Ah, the car door opens and they take me out, its dark, and it's raining, I yearn to smell wet mud, but the concrete jungle engulfs and destroys it, fails me. Vrishti's little footsteps on the sands of the beach fill up with rain water, as I juxtapose mine along to keep her from falling while coaxing her to walk. She falls nevertheless, I reach out for her, reach out of reach, until strangulated by the strong limb of time, I can reach no more.
His family is here, inform them and help them with formalities, says the man who accompanied me in the car, as he instructs his associate about the details required on the form:
Shishir Sharma, Male, 34 years, Brought Dead.
A few disturbed faces walk towards me, and the same faces smile serenely from an immeasurably long distance. Superimposing the serene faces over the disturbed ones, I set myself free.
There are too many in the car; they will drive me to school, so I can drowse off for a while. But, I am getting really late, its already dark, and the seat next to Bela's would already be taken, the school perhaps might be over, why don't they just let me sleep instead? I hope the Maths teacher doesn't come today, else I will have another note in the remarks page of my diary, for I slept when I should have done my homework.
There it is, the school building looks so different, I remember it being brighter the day before, and the smell of sterilizer has never before been so strong. My white canvas shoes get soiled as I playfully climb over a crushed sandstone mound, still wet with yesterdays rain, on my way to the classroom. Rubbing my shoes, red as blood now, against an Ashoka tree, it occurs to me that its Thursday, and I should have worn black shoes and brown uniform today. Nevertheless, dragging my feet on the floor to clean the sole, I walk ahead, and notice kids running around in white shorts and canvas shoes in the basketball court. A fortunate change in code I did not know of, I think, while I cross the court to reach my class, and sneak in to the seat next to Bela's, but cant find her. I look around for her, when an extremely bright light blinds my dilated eyes, and she walks in through the door, straight towards the fire altar in the center of the room. She looks grown up, by around twenty years in a day, but I recognize her, almost with precognition. A man in saffron, perhaps a priest, waits for her near the altar, and as soon she reaches there, he animatedly starts talking to her, pointing towards me repeatedly as he speaks. The voice doesn't reach me, and I don't leave my seat to avoid being asked about homework by the Maths teacher.
I hear shouts of "V.P. Singh Hai Hai " as somehow back again in the car, I am being driven somewhere, probably because I slept again. A stone strikes the wind screen and shatters it, hitting the Maths teacher on his head, and there's blood all over.
Look at him, says someone in an unquiet voice, he has lost so much blood that he is completely pale; and his pulse has become so feeble. Will he live? another anxious voice inquires. Perhaps not, answers the first, not unless we get to the hospital in 10 minutes; if we do, he has a 10 percent chance. Did anyone answer the phone? Someone named Bela called on his phone, and I have asked her to tell his folks to reach the hospital. He is opening his eyes, do you hear me? You will be alright, just stay calm, try not to sleep, your family will be with you shortly.
Father arrives outside the operation theatre, soaked in rain, taking stairs all the way to the third floor in his overt excitement. How about Vrishti, if its a girl, he asks and lets a few rain drops fall out of his raincoat pocket. With moist eyes, Bela releases Vrishti from the comforts of her bosom and with slight apprehension hands her over to me. Trembling at first, my longing hands meet their destiny in her soothing touch, and as an abjurer of divinity, I struggle to make sense of what I feel. Then she smiles, and the spontaneity of it breaches the periphery of all emotional restraint I have ever used, my eyes well up.
Ah, the car door opens and they take me out, its dark, and it's raining, I yearn to smell wet mud, but the concrete jungle engulfs and destroys it, fails me. Vrishti's little footsteps on the sands of the beach fill up with rain water, as I juxtapose mine along to keep her from falling while coaxing her to walk. She falls nevertheless, I reach out for her, reach out of reach, until strangulated by the strong limb of time, I can reach no more.
His family is here, inform them and help them with formalities, says the man who accompanied me in the car, as he instructs his associate about the details required on the form:
Shishir Sharma, Male, 34 years, Brought Dead.
A few disturbed faces walk towards me, and the same faces smile serenely from an immeasurably long distance. Superimposing the serene faces over the disturbed ones, I set myself free.
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