Whispering Deads

The last year was hard on me, as I watched death closely and her whiff reminded me of my childhood, which was mostly stuck at darkest corners of our dusty roof, and my friends, most of whom were imaginary and lived in mirror and walls, returned with demands of love. I know, they meant no harm, as I took countless adventures with them in a lonely floor or in a past-odoured closet and I saved their lives and they mine, but my heart pumped and breaths weighed just by mere sights of them and I knew I was in trouble.

I am not a child anymore, at least not by looks or the decisions I have to make for survival. I don’t have liberty to replace the visions in my nightmares or strength to shut them down, rather I try to live with them and make in peace, and until I am married and fathered and have beautiful souls surrounding me, death was so enigmatic that I almost fell to her mystic ways. The magic to vanish a person forever seemed to be the best way of life one could get. And so when I saw death at five, and then nine and then every other year, I drew the idea of her closer and clearer, as if my very existence was simply absence of her and deads whispered the tales of love.

However, last few years as I have grown up (as I am now) and my friends of mirror and walls remained lost in the old green house beside a pond, my indifference to death was unquestioned and welcomed by a mind, which I possessed and hold dearly, like a long found scribble. She was a natural way of ending things, I taught myself. I put off bed light and easily ignored the whisperings of forgotten souls, my dadu & thakuma, my lovely didima, an always smiling Jamaibabu, my grumpy Jethu, beautiful mami, a beloved niece and a young cousin. I remember I was ashamed of me, when my eyes went dry like Thar in the sea of tears of everyone surrounding me, over my lifeless didima and while flickers of fire rose to sky, I couldn’t wait to hear new stories of a new world from her, when I’d be alone and asleep. Everyone used to visit me then, even the grey dog, whose bones were discovered by another dog from a nearby bamboo forest and our old mud house, which gave away for a bricked one. But as I crossed twenty, they stopped, or it was me.

The last year, I watched a good man of breaths and legs, whose smiles outgrew his failing lungs and whose strong heart radiated hope upto the final moment, reduced to a swollen ball of flesh and dust. I cried when I heard the news. My eyes didn’t betray, as my heart was genuinely heavy with the sights of his beloved wife, daughters, sister and lone agile mother. He never saw the house he bought. He didn’t notice and held his first grandchild. His youngest daughter was yet to finish her study, and he will miss her marriage. My eyes welled up every-time I remember him and his unfinished wishes. And how he turned into just a frame on wall! And then I heard his whisper. 

“How did you find the house? Isn’t it beautiful?” His voice was unmistakable, as it was sincere and raspy.

I couldn’t answer, as I was not supposed to. Deads love talking, sometimes children hear them and think of monsters under the bed, but I know they tell stories, and if I just listen, I can see the lives they lived or could live. Anyway I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t see him, as the brightness of emptiness was blistering and his voice was swaying. He whispered at length, till I couldn’t bear it anymore and opened eyes. 

During sleep, realities merge. But I knew, while gulping down a glass of cold water, that I could never share it. I couldn’t write anymore, as gradually he and all of them returned demanding to hear them out, and my blog parched for months. I had mixed feelings for sleep. I wanted it badly, and I hated it. I missed our dusty roof and darkest corners. I missed the sentinel trees who protected me from evil lords, and I cried for them, who are dying.

But suddenly they are gone. As magical they are, my usual dreams of my daughters and me fighting aliens, walking a faraway shore with my wife under stars or a retour to my mystic village, where my parents still clean my room, have returned.

I miss them, and I miss these. Perhaps they miss me too.