Standing at Death's Threshold

How long has it been since I've seen the sky! There is no sky in the hospital, no wind, no light. What if I truly cannot recover? Light doesn't enter here, there is only darkness. Wind doesn't blow here, the place always feels stifling. What shade of blue the sky is—I cannot remember. I keep trying, but it's no use. I feel terrible. Lately, when I look into people's eyes, I see the shadow of death's messenger. Living fills me with such dread.

New buds have appeared on the plants in the balcony pots at home. I long to touch them so much. Buds can say hello in such sweet voices. How tender they are! I probably won't get to see those buds bloom into flowers. May the flowers be well. There are no flowers here. I need some flowers. I will very likely soon feel the touch of some pure white flowers!

At the corner of the lane, a small boy begs every day. Once I told him, "When I get my salary this time, I'll arrange for your mother's eye operation." After that, I received my tutoring fees several times, yet I never kept my word to him. It's not that I forgot. I wasn't short of money either. Then why didn't I keep my word? Perhaps the emotion of that moment was no longer there. When emotion fades or disappears, we forget people. One can easily make false promises to a beggar child, showing off one's magnanimity. Those who make promises to us and then break them surely think of us as beggars, don't they?

Is the boy still waiting today? Or has his need to wait come to an end? Why does the sin of breaking one's word hurt only when there's no path left to keep it? If I die, then this—that in death's final moments I'm thinking about the promise I made to that boy—he will never know, will he? He will think I deceived him. Will he curse me too? Can one curse even when deprived of unearned good fortune? And if one does, does it accomplish anything? I wonder, do they really think about all this? Or are they used to seeing promises broken? How many people actually keep their word to them? Most people either forget to keep their word or simply don't. Am I then part of that majority too? Sometimes we ourselves make others understand the very misunderstanding they have about us!

Exactly how long after I'm buried will the worms come and start tearing me apart? How long do they take to reach a corpse? The whole world has kept me waiting day after day. I waited for a job, didn't get it. I waited for my beloved to return, they didn't come. I waited to laugh heartily, still can't laugh today. I waited to hear a couple of compassionate words from my father, he didn't say them. Father doesn't talk to me. I wonder, is father crying for me today? When one's own child is on their deathbed, does a father's anger still remain? I am such a failure! I'm dying, yet father's resentment won't break! Or is it that they don't let anyone come to me, so father can't come here? Or does father really...

One doesn't have to wait for worms. They just come. I wonder, after they arrive, which part of my body will they start eating first? Eyes? The flesh of my chest? Arms and legs? Or will they scatter and eat everything together? What a feast of joy it will be for them! They will all eat me with such pleasure, just as I once ate with great satisfaction—chicken fry, roast, rezala, korma-kaliya! Won't they feel even a little pity for me? This body of mine, tended with such care, and they will eat it with such great joy, swarming and fighting over it! Will they have such complete dominion over my corpse? And even seeing everything, I won't be able to say anything? Alas, after death, even one's own body is no longer one's own! Why then did I spend a lifetime wanting so many things?

Nature, it seems, returns everything this way, with interest! How lovingly I protected this body, and these disgusting creatures will devour it with great enthusiasm! Just as I licked my lips and ate, they too will lick their lips and eat me! I have always eaten after paying the price. But at what price will they get their share of my body? Or will they get me at the unpaid price of the pain I caused others, knowingly or unknowingly? Life's entire account balances out perfectly in death!

What I wanted, what I didn't want—none of it comes to mind today. I only think that today I desperately want to live. When we're alive, it doesn't even occur to us that the desire to live is also a kind of desire! Had I not reached this place, I would never have known there is no desire more intense than this. If human lifespan were divided into several deaths, the business of living would become much more beautiful.

Those few sparrows that come to my house balcony every evening—are they missing me these past few days? Is anyone feeding them in my place? Will they understand when I'm gone? Can birds comprehend when humans leave? Will they cry for me? Have they ever told their children about me? When talking among themselves, could they tell, like everyone else, that I'm not much of a talker? In bird society too, are the nearly mute like me objects of contempt? Do birds also know how to ignore, just like humans? Can birds also forget everything and just fly away?

COVID is spreading. Human anguish is increasing. No empty beds can be found anywhere. I am unnecessarily occupying the bed of another dying person. Until I die, another person cannot get the chance to die. I am blocking someone else's death. Because of me, another person is writhing in death's agony. The most virtuous thing I could do right now is to die quickly and give someone else the opportunity to die. Modern humans must reach the deathbed before death. If leaving is destiny, then there's no point in staying and occupying someone's place. The one I thought I couldn't live without left me long ago! I lived all this time because I thought I couldn't survive. And now because I think I won't die, I will truly die—this I know for certain! I heard from them that there's a shortage of oxygen everywhere. If I die, another person will get oxygen, at least for some time before their death. No, I'll give up this seat now! The oxygen outside the hospital wonderfully sustains life; the oxygen inside the hospital barely pushes away death! The same oxygen, yet two different faces!

Understanding that I cannot return alive, today I desperately want to live. This is such a helpless desire! What's the point of living in such helplessness? A nurse came and asked what I felt like eating. I told her I want to eat hot rice with raw chili, mixed with koi fish curry made by my mother's hands. The girl is very good, soft-hearted. Hearing me, the poor thing stared at me wide-eyed. They don't allow outside food into the cabin. Beyond the dietitian's orders, they won't let us have even an extra glass of water. Every day fish or meat curry, with some boiled papaya or bottle gourd, a little thin dal. In the morning, lexus biscuits with egg whites. Same in the evening. All food in very small portions—I don't know if they add salt. They like to mention giving warm milk, but I've never seen them actually like to give milk. Both the quality and quantity of food are quite poor. There's no point complaining about this. They never go beyond the dietitian's words. I'm dying watching their consciousness and care! I wonder, if a person who's going to die anyway eats a couple of his favorite foods before dying, would it diminish their dietitian's certificate somewhat?

The doctors are very good people. They tell me, "You'll be able to go home soon." I smile when I hear this. No one wants to see tears from a person on their deathbed, so I don't disappoint any of them. They don't know that I understand what "going home" means. Among the duty nurses, there's one—that girl who sometimes asks me what I feel like eating—who sometimes secretly brings me amra, guava, dates. She says if anyone finds out, she could lose her job. Why does she bring these things knowing she could lose her job? Who am I to her? We never met anywhere before I came here. Is the girl perhaps lacking in intelligence? Or does she have too much love in her heart? What will she get from me in return for this love? I'm leaving! Someone for whom I won't even get the chance to pray—why would she do so much for me? I've even seen the girl cry! Then I convinced myself that some human tears have no meaning. There is no more precious treasure in this world than tears whose meaning we cannot find with our limited understanding. Since talking is very difficult, I often converse with her through gestures. Looking at her, I think, fools still exist in this world, and that's why the world is so beautiful!

Whenever I think of worms, I no longer want to die. And thinking of the strange suffering that comes with trying to live, I no longer want to live either. Which way should I go? I actually have no power to go in any direction. I must go wherever destiny takes me. Today has come that day in my life when I, combining all my desires and abilities, cannot go where I want to go; cannot stay where I want to stay. Hospitals and prisons teach life from very close quarters. One who has never been to either of these places has many lessons of life yet to learn.

My asthma problem—getting wet in the rain is forbidden. If they gave me a chance to express my final wish, I would want to get soaked in the rain. Someone who’s dying anyway—how much sicker could they really get from being drenched in rain? I used to think nothing could be more agonizing than the breathlessness of asthma. Today I think COVID would probably roll with laughter seeing my thoughts. If I survive by some miracle, I’ll lie on the rooftop for three straight days and get thoroughly soaked in the rain. All my life I’ve only gazed at the rain, never able to get wet because of Mother’s scolding. If I stretch out both hands before God, won’t I get even a small life, if only to experience being drenched in rain?

Is Father still as sullen as ever? If I wanted to hold Father’s hand and get wet in the rain, would he be very angry? Can Father even get angry anymore? I never embraced him, out of fear and hesitation. Is it because I never embraced him that Father left without ever meeting me? Father isn’t in the cabin six doors down from mine, I know. We both came here together, but Father got released from here before me. I will meet Father. I have little time left, I’m going to Father. This time I’ll run straight to him and hold him tight. I’ll hold Father’s hand and get wet in the rain. Father will tell me many stories, I know. Mother isn’t there, neither is Shikha. Only I will be with Father. Who else will Father find there to talk with besides me? The dead have no anger, no resentment, no fear, no hesitation. Life only teaches us to keep distance, to stay apart; but death brings everything together. All of life’s deceptions and calculations—death blows them away in an instant!