Wishful Thinking

Those days, those were the best days of my life. Standing outside the class room, with a heavy backpack on, I was late yet again. As much as I hated the castigation at that time, I sometimes wonder why I miss those days more than anything in my life. I still remember my first day at school, I was crying, crying the whole time, my teacher had to take special care of me. I never wanted to sit in the class room, but at that time I didn’t know that eighteen years down the line, I would be craving and yearning to go back in time and do it all over again. It was fun, it was excitement, it was enthusiasm, it was thrill, it was ecstasy, yet it was all in innocence.

As I passed some school today, I heard the school bell ringing, which took me to a state of jubilation and euphoria; remembering those amazing moments, yet I was down in the dumps- dejected at the thought that I will never be able to wait for this bell to ring for my break time. I could imagine myself in the middle of all hustle and bustle of break time, with all of us running around, playing games, not wary of the heat of early June. Today, I can’t even bear the thought of leaving my comfy and cozy room to get the guest at the door in June. I wish I could be same person again, I wish I could find all my friends again, I wish I could go back in time, I wish. Yet sometimes I pray to God, I pray for a miracle that will bring my school life back to me, I pray for talks of time machine to be true so that I could go back to those school years of mine, but as much as I hate to admit it, I know it is practically impractical.

Those early to bed, early to rise days, I was in the bed at nine listening to stories- stories of Robin hood, stories of Aladdin, stories of Sinbad- My sister would keep on narrating stories to me until I slept. At that time, I thought, someday I will be one of those heroes; I dreamed of my success stories. Every child does- I did not know that at that time- but very few achieve success. But today- success for me- is that someday I’ll be able to provide my children with the same kind of childhood that I had- the same memories will be theirs as well- they will have dreams too- and I’ll be able to relive my childhood again through them.

Wishful thinking- I know.

Death Bed

He refused to give up. He was fighting- fighting hard to stay alive, fighting hard to bury his worst nightmare- Death, fighting hard to survive one more night before he could lay deep inside the matter that had created him.

“One more night” He muttered to himself.

As he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling above and a fan that stood still for it was a cold December night, memories came roaring down the slender burrows of his mind. He could see his mother, his father and his siblings. He imagined his arrival in this world, it seemed like the world hadn’t changed. This was the same hospital he was born in, and it seemed as if he was going to die in it too. Cycle had been accomplished. The sound of ambulance siren reminded him of his first visit to the hospital- a visit which wasn’t destined to end in such a horrendous manner- the death of his mother.

“Same old sirens. Someone is going to hell tonight” He whispered as a quick hint of a faint smile ran across his lips.

He could remember the bizarre incidents on his 6th birthday as precisely as anyone of that age could, for it had changed the course of his life in such a way that it scarcely gave him an opening to be himself later in his life. He had begged God for his mother’s health; she had lung cancer- result of excessive smoking- he had thought at that time. It was his birthday when she had bronchitis attack; the sirens seemed more like the jingle of angels, streaming down from heavens to take his mother away- He had assumed. But God did not listen to his prayers- prayers that he had offered the whole night- he had asked for his birthday gift from God.

“What a wonderful birthday gift it was! Thank you God---d---d” The word God just could not come out of his mouth, it was broken down into pieces, as was his belief in God Itself.

Out of the window of his private room, the sun was setting across the aristocratic and posh neighborhood of the town. World surely hadn’t changed. His father had bought him a bungalow in this part of the town thirty years earlier. Two years later, on an evening like today, he had received a call from the same hospital. His father was dying, dying of loneliness, dying of solitude, dying of isolation. His father had bought him a bungalow but couldn’t draw the love that his son had shown for his mother, for it was his father’s own fault; he had left them both when his son was born. That son would never come. At 4’o clock in the morning he had received another call. His father had died. He couldn’t even be there at the demise of his earthly creator.

“Sorry Dad.” He said while tears flowed out of his eyes.

He was helpless- so helpless that he couldn’t even remove tears from his face. Tears made a stream from his eyes to the fabric on the bed. His own life circle- he thought. Starting from the birth in the eye... and ending at absorption in the fabric and between that- he thought- there will be thousands of memories for a single tear for it had a life of its own too- a life like his own- a life like everyone else in this world.

His trauma shattered by a crying sound from the room on left side.

“Indeed, nothing has changed.” he mumbled to himself, remembering the night when his son was born- when he had witnessed the miracle of his life; the miracle of birth.

Another new born in this world- he thought- another of those children who won’t love their parents- another of those teenagers who are willing to ignore their parent’s illness for a silly dating experience- he continued to curse them as the child’s crying voice disappeared behind the pane of reminiscences and memoirs that he was now recollecting. He had stood up all night, holding his son in his arms so that he wouldn’t cry.

“Son, please come quickly. I need to hold you in my arms for one last time.” He said.

Now he needed his son to hold him in his arms, but his voice kept coming back, echoing back from the walls of the room. It seemed as if his own father was calling him, and he wouldn’t listen. He had been too busy enjoying the sunset with his wife that he had forgotten- forgotten about his father. Now it was his time to repay.

“Life is completing its cycle” he said to himself, “it is taking revenge from me. But I wouldn’t give up, I will fight another night of despair and desolation, I will survive to see my son, I will stay alive until I see my grand son, I will.”

He fell asleep. A deep sleep; result of the medicine he had been injected with.


Author’s note:

It was his daily routine. For four years now, he has been remembering and recollecting all memories and reminiscences every night before he falls to sleep. Hoping that he would see his son before his eternal sleep, hoping that he will never wake up again to suffer these miseries, hoping…
But the cycle continues.