It is 6 in the morning. I suddenly wake up
with a start. The eerie sound of the alarm sets my pulse racing. Slowly rubbing
my eyes I look at the calendar on the wall.
“You are going through a very bad phase,” the
family astrologer had said. “Doubt whether you will survive this amavasya.”
I took a second look at the calendar. Sure it
was ‘amavasya,’ my last day on planet earth. My head spins, my hands
turn cold. I feel helpless
“Tring…Tring…” the phone rings. It’s my
daughter at the other end. Tears well up in my eyes. I gather myself and pick
up the phone.
“Hi sweetheart! Happy Birthday. So what’s special today?” She
asks.
“Nothing special. Just the usual meal and
maybe a glass of paysam,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful.
“Hey, Amma, something worrying you?”she asks
I reply in the negative. After chatting for a
few more minutes she keeps down the phone. With leaden legs I move towards the
kitchen.
“Whroom…… crash…” the sound of a bike hitting
the wall makes me start. I rush to the door. There just outside the gate I see
a figure drenched in blood. My legs gather wings; I rush to his side calling
out to my husband for help.
I draw in my breath. There before my eyes, is a
young boy of just fourteen or so. Legs
crushed below the bike he moans. I try to pick up the bike but to no avail.
Suddenly, two strong arms join mine. Bike removed, we quickly lift up the
injured.
Luckily for us the doctor next door is in
station. First aid given, the car is taken out. With hubby at the wheel we rush
the boy to the nearest hospital. The boy groans in pain. I lay his head on my
lap and offer words of comfort. The car moves through the maze of traffic with
headlights on and the horn blaring. Out of the corner of my eyes I see an errant
motorcyclist or two suddenly swerve away from our path.
The next four hours are the most difficult
ones. The police are summoned, the boy’s parents contacted, the surgery is on. Hubby and myself are busy
contacting people trying to arrange blood that too B-ve, for the boy in the
theatre. Operation successful, we reach home mentally drained. It is already
well past 11 am. I am in no mood to cook so hubby decides we go in for parcel
meals.
Other chores over, we sit down for the meal
in silence. The meal from ‘Kayees’ has never tasted so good. I guess it is the
sheer feeling of relief that has added to its taste. I call up the hospital.
The boy is doing fine. I sit down with a book. Just two pages into reading, I
drift off into a world of my own. I am
transported 40 years back into the past. My school, my
friends, the adventures, the falls all comes to life. I don’t know how long it
is since I have been in this yester- world. I feel a pressure on my shoulders.
“What’s so funny?” hubby asks. It is only
then that I realize that I have been laughing out loud. My cheeks are wet with
tears, no not the sad ones.
I put the book aside. The garden beckons me. I
enter it. The sweet smell of the roses transports me to another world. I remember
the time I was married. A smile plays on my lips. I gently fondle the petals of
a bud waiting to bloom. The face of my newborn babe flashes before my eyes. My
lips involuntarily touch the bud. I
relive the joy, the ecstasy of the moment I held my little one in my hands. Her
eyes probing mine, her face breaking into a smile, her gurgles, her tantrums
all come back to me. I am lost.
The sound of the temple bell wakes me up
from my reverie. I rush in. It is tea time. I put the kettle to boil.
The smell of the brewing tea reminds me of my
mishaps, my blunders in the kitchen. I rewind. The kettle sings. Sweet melody flows from my lips interspersed
with small bursts of laughter. Suddenly an unpleasant incident comes to mind. I
fast forward the tape (memory tape) only to slow down when another sweet moment
comes up again.
I sniff. The smell of something burning hits
me like a bolt from the blue. The red, hot, angry kettle stares at me. I crouch.
The kettle is dumped in the sink. “Serves it right,” I think. “It had the
audacity to stare at me in anger.” The second kettle goes on the stove. This
time I am careful. Tea served, I switch on the television. The evening news
keeps me engrossed.
Suddenly a news flashes on the screen. My bank
has just won an award for customer excellence. I rejoice and break the news to
hubby dear. I can’t wait to share it with my counterpart friends in another
Bank. After all, they have been our greatest critique even going to the extent
of hinting the merger of our Bank with theirs. The net is connected, FB accessed, words flow.
Time flies, the net has me hooked.
More than an hour into the net, I look up and
out of the window. “Ah! Dusk already,” I say to myself. I get up hurriedly. The
evening lamp is lit. Prayers offered, I move into the kitchen. Hubby
accompanies me. Together, we work on the dinner. Chapattis are rolled and with
them the video cam of my mind. The lovely time spent in the kitchen with hubby
for help, the chappatis rolled out by my sweet babe, the grumbling over
misplaced containers… all come to life. Before I realize it, dinner is ready.
The table is set; the
meal passes off in sweet silence. I return
to my laptop and the social media. There are a lot of posts waiting to be read
and commented on. Seconds, minutes, hours tick by. My fingers fly on the
keyboard. A new post takes shape.
11.30 pm
Sleep is at the doorstep of my eyes. Net
disconnected, system shut down, I get up stretch my hands above my head and
release a cry of relief. A silent prayer leaves my lips. My head hits the pillow. Sweet slumber
takes over.
The next day
A crow caws, the cuckoo sings. I open my eyes.
I am
still alive???
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The prompt
So, what would you do if you are told that today is the last day of your life? Will you hurriedly attempt to do everything in your bucket list or would you retrospect about life up till now, instead? Your blog post should start with the line,"It is 6 in the morning...."
So now that you have read the post, how about
sharing your views, your suggestions here in the comment section? Eyes waiting to read them
