Nir: “It was on the day of doom, i.e., December 4, 1993, when she was born under the roof of cream yet disgusting white, and humanly warmth, on the day of coldness, storms, surrounded with the cries and shrieks of my feeble mom. On the same day, there were many more cries that the nurses and doctors heard, including one of mine; babies in every other room. Weird.
In the year1998, January, she saw the face of little brother. ‘He’s born a bit crippled in the head,’ she heard the doctor utter.
When she questioned her mother about it, she said, ‘Nothing. He’ll be as fit as you are one day.’
During 2002, she received the first (and the last) opportunity to become Little Krishna in one of our school events which used to happen each year at the time of Janmashtami. She was supposed to break the Dahi Handi.
I wonder where I was at that time. I was probably participating as well, as a side-actor in the play around Mahabharata.
When we were driving back home that night, I kept smiling innocently when my mother commented on call to someone, ‘People felt like the Supreme Lord Krishna himself had come to bless them when the Handi was finally broken. The crowd was joining hands in prayer, and tears filled the eyes of many. The awes and atmosphere at the moment is inexpressible.’
I wonder how easily I used to feel left-alone and discouraged back in those days?
Oh, how fast this could be! Like in the very last second that just passed by, life was spent and completed.
Between the ages of 12-15, as far as I comprehended, she often started to settle into her own quietness, when amid her group of girls, and as they chattered about various things, that we all knew, she never understood. A few of those talks were revealed to me quite early during my school life as a senior, being inside the girl’s body. Most of it, she must have explored herself inside the books, but perhaps, never was able to imagine or comprehend until she watched it?
But one thing’s for sure, by the age of nineteen, that once-beloved as Krishna, died.
One thing that was constant from the beginning till the end was probably, her curiosity to comprehend the very existence of everything- and not just in scientific terms. Life, Death, Blood, Bones, Humans, God, etc. — almost everything interested her. Reason behind everything was what this kid of the 21st century, and- not to amiss- an Indian girl, was yearning for.
As far as I was able to trace, it must be amid the months of 2006, Rooh began to lose herself into her own world.”
Nir was the one who trailed me along with such inky skies in the bosoms of which I began to transcend my existence. My nerves turned algae green. I became a casual, irresponsible and careless vice. She was the one who traced my steps along with the pale blizzards and dull brooks of flow called life.
Today, as I smell the odor of dewy fronds of rose, and fold this last letter, to put inside her grave, I shiver into the coldness of the springy wind. At the back of my head, the breeze flies, continuing its journey, and inside that back of the head, a flood of thoughts, as I push and pull my brain-cells, to find the beginning of everything that happened in the past.
For some atypical causes, I keep on ending at him. Within the quicksilver of one’s timeline, the frames of each moment engraved on the blackboard of one’s brain’s memory-palace.
After reaching home, I looked outside those large, transparent, yet strong glass-windows, and through them, the greenery outside my abode.
I’m thinking of the way to paint the story we lived in. I am willing to recreate this story, in some atypical way, embedding it somehow, in this house. As I think of the ways to do so, I again try to locate the edges of the first scene.
I heard the music of the wind chime near the window. Nir’s mother gave it to me yesterday. She told me that Nir loved the sound of the wind. She added that, whenever she felt distressed, it was this chime that she listened to, to unite herself back with the Harmony, and sustain the smile on her face.
As I looked at the shades of her handcrafted chime, I pulled out the pack of cigarettes from my black denim’s back pocket. I picked out one of them and shifted my gaze from chime to the white-brown, tiny cylindrical pump of old-memories, in my hand.
“Risking it again today, after a long break; need to revisit the darkness of his skin.” I laughed. “God, what was he?” I smiled and sighed.
Dark Things; Bright Hearts by Indian English Author and India-based Editor, Ritika Gupta (aka @ritikapeace) is a new story, which will be available to read online for free without any third-party applications like, Wattpad or Mirakee. At the same time, the story will be posted chapter-wise, or episodically, and thus is being called, New Story Series.
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