The corpse and Me ..
“A decade later, when I heard about the news of her death, I could not feel anything… I could still remember the smell of the corpse that hovered in the town for many nights … “
My father was a child of 3 years, when he crossed the first and probably the last border for his lifetime, clutching the hands of a woman already turned schizophrenic as an aftermath of what we call the freedom… little he knew that the generations after him will all bear testimony of something even time wants to forget ..
Long he thought that the ghosts from the old tomb at his place will come someday to visit him, to take him away, and when they finally did, he took less than a moment to recognize his death.
Maybe, after a lifetime of distress, hope had still not forsaken him, for I never again saw the same smile in any dead man’s lip as serene as his.
Maybe, my father was not dreaming at the moment that death struck him and he chose not to leave his dreams to the fear of dying. Years later, when I caressed her for the first time, she confessed that she felt like she will die but she didn’t flinch... She loved it, embraced it. And maybe it was the time she started dreaming of her death… and on that fretful day, when her funeral was almost over, it started raining and I was the only person who knew that she had already dreamt it , dreamt it all.
The police van was waiting outside her house, the corpse lay in her bedroom completely naked, the blood trickled from her wrist and it went down to the table where she had planted a lilac that morning and a half-done poem. They took her to the morgue on the same path she used to go for a walk every evening, the path that lead to eternity. The house was never sold again, for a eerie ambience was always there, and I, sitting comfortably half-a-globe across could smell the rotten corpse. I didn’t know where the smell came from, but, I certainly knew it must be hers.
It was the first time I missed her in decades.
(contd.)
“A decade later, when I heard about the news of her death, I could not feel anything… I could still remember the smell of the corpse that hovered in the town for many nights … “
My father was a child of 3 years, when he crossed the first and probably the last border for his lifetime, clutching the hands of a woman already turned schizophrenic as an aftermath of what we call the freedom… little he knew that the generations after him will all bear testimony of something even time wants to forget ..
Long he thought that the ghosts from the old tomb at his place will come someday to visit him, to take him away, and when they finally did, he took less than a moment to recognize his death.
Maybe, after a lifetime of distress, hope had still not forsaken him, for I never again saw the same smile in any dead man’s lip as serene as his.
Maybe, my father was not dreaming at the moment that death struck him and he chose not to leave his dreams to the fear of dying. Years later, when I caressed her for the first time, she confessed that she felt like she will die but she didn’t flinch... She loved it, embraced it. And maybe it was the time she started dreaming of her death… and on that fretful day, when her funeral was almost over, it started raining and I was the only person who knew that she had already dreamt it , dreamt it all.
The police van was waiting outside her house, the corpse lay in her bedroom completely naked, the blood trickled from her wrist and it went down to the table where she had planted a lilac that morning and a half-done poem. They took her to the morgue on the same path she used to go for a walk every evening, the path that lead to eternity. The house was never sold again, for a eerie ambience was always there, and I, sitting comfortably half-a-globe across could smell the rotten corpse. I didn’t know where the smell came from, but, I certainly knew it must be hers.
It was the first time I missed her in decades.
(contd.)
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