For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not

 

My son was lying in a coffin somewhere in the same aircraft that took us home. The car that he was driving hours back sped off the track and hurtled into a tree, cracking open his skull. Denying himself to my advice, he drank deep into the night. And with every passing kilometer, he pressed harder at the accelerator lest his friends seated around him thought he was less of a man.

“Sir, would you care to eat something?”

The stewardess, her bearing erect, sported an impersonal smile. My wife, her eyes closed and her head facing the isle, was too tired from crying all night.

“Two sandwiches please.” My eyes had welled up suddenly and a drop of water, which had lingered on the right eyelid for a while, crashed down. There was a burning sensation in my chest. A void created that nothing promised to fill. I regret taking that sandwich, the very sight of which is making me retch now. I sleep sporadically, every time waking up to hope this is all a bad dream. Life as we had foreseen, had been turned on its head; unless the bastard is up to a prank. Unless he comes back from behind me and tells me how I look better when I keep that beard. I cry uncontrollably, not caring to be consoled. A little boy, standing on the lap of his father in the seat ahead of mine, reared his head to face me, bereft of an inkling of how painful life was to become. I wish this beautiful thing wasn’t born.

Some of the moments I hold closest are the ones where Pablo was still small. Reaching home early, I made for the chair in the corner of the room, just to watch the boy be. Throbbing with life and scratching compulsively at his drawing book with the colored pencils, he raised his head when I pushed open the door and resented my fatherly advances towards his neck and cheek with his tiny soft fingers. As I release the first gush of smoke and look at the boy going back and forth between the drawing book and the new synthesizer, I feel, though briefly, how good it is to be alive. Then, when I nipped the butt and made another advance towards him, it is not to take off his pants and ask him what that little thing between his legs is. I pick him up and swoosh him around to hold him upside down by the legs until he stops giggling and tells me he loves me. He then sits on my lap poking at my paunch, asking me what I hid in there. One of my greatest regrets is that he grew up.

A grey cloud had formed above us. The leaves on the Banyan tree were still. The white paint on the façade of the house next door shone whiter.  On the road, a crow dragged the carcass of a dead rat towards the footpath, one eye always alert for a vehicle. The cat on the fence raised its head seeing me. Though it slowly placed its head back between its front legs after a while, it kept its eyes on me.

But my son is dead now. And as I placed my palm on his chest and looked at his peaceful face for one last time, tears hurtled down my face onto his white shirt. I shudder with every outburst, trying to think of one good reason to live.  As they take him away, I sit on his bed, next to the guitar he often played; next to a decrepit Gitanjali he never read. I wonder if they feel the strange quiet. I wonder if they cry.

What if I had him for one more day, I wonder. Though this arrangement would have me savor every little bit of him I do not otherwise, a new part of me will die with each tick tock towards the next day. Now before his cupboard, I cry straining at his shirts. They smell no different than what he did when I held him the very first time.

Sitting by the window of a train, I take my hand out over the sill and through the metal bars to tap the excess ash off my cigarette. The landscape closest vanished faster than the ones far and distant.

 

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