The Solitary Rose Part 1

The room had been ransacked. Every piece of furniture was upturned or broken. Picture frames were on the floor, the glass covers cracked like spider-webs. Window panes were broken, curtains ripped apart. It looked like someone had vented their anger and frustration on the contents of the room. Only one glass coffee table sat amid all the devastation, untouched and unharmed. And on the table was one solitary red rose. Her eyes fell on it and immediately she knew. She froze, then fell to her knees, as if she had lost all the strength and resolve she had mustered inside her over the last few months, the most difficult months of her young life so far. She knew she had lost her fight with destiny. Fate had defeated her. And the red rose was all the proof she needed. Tears came down her eyes, first in drops, then in torrents. She wept till she could not cry any more. She lay down on the floor, exhausted, and implored God to give her death. Life would never be the same again.

I died again .... last night

Over the last couple of years, I have had a recurring experience at night after going to bed. It has always been when I have been transitioning from the state of semi-consciousness to the state of slumber. Initially, I refused to acknowledge this as nothing more than a dream, maybe a nightmare at best. But as the frequency of this experience has increased, I have begun to wonder if it is just a dream or a premonition of something in my future, a not so distant future. 

Let me recount the sequence of events from the first time I had this experience. I had gone to bed, looking forward to a bright, sunny tomorrow. I don't know how long I had been sleeping or how deep my slumber was when someone shook me hard, like my kids do to wake me up when I sometimes out-sleep them on Saturday mornings. I woke up with a start and opened my eyes.  I saw that I was lying on my side, with my two hands crossed over my chest. I took in my surroundings, the bed, the furniture, the room, the darkness punctuated by streaks of light from street lamps coming in through the open windows. Everything was in place, exactly as they were when I went to bed. It was when I tried to move my hands to reach out for my phone that I started noticing the difference. I was unable to move. I could see; but I couldn't move my limbs to touch anything. I could speak, but no sound came out. My mind was fully functional; but only I knew that. There was an absolute silence engulfing me like a shroud. I felt like I was trapped in ice, sans the coldness, or in a vacuum-sealed room made of transparent glass. Or a coffin with a see-through top.

An uncanny feeling of desperation and helplessness crept over me. My brain was telling me to scream out for help; it was telling me that if someone gave me a push, I would get out of my frozen state and this nightmare will be over. I started calling my wife with all my might. I called her name and asked her to shake me hard. Over and over again. In different languages that I knew she understood, out of desperation. She didn't respond; she was oblivious to my trauma. After a few attempts, I finally realized that no sound was coming out of my mouth. My wife couldn't hear me. She was right there, but she couldn't hear me!

At that moment, as I was succumbing to despair, as the fight was slowly leaving me, I finally realized that I was dead. That could be the only logical explanation of what was happening. I had died, and I had not been prepared for it. It was over; I was moving on, whether I wanted it or not. I - the real me, the soul - had left my body. Panic started setting in. I tried to struggle in vain. A plethora of uncoordinated thoughts raced through my mind - thoughts of unfinished actions, unspoken words, incomplete amends, and unfulfilled promises. There was sadness, there were regrets, there was fear, and rage brought out by helplessness. There was also an understanding that was seeping in. And then there was this blinding light - very bright, but very soothing, like an ugly deception that was transforming into a welcome reality. 

And then very suddenly, someone reached out and shook me really hard, bringing me out of my reverie. It was over. The noises came back, loud like the climactic crescendo of the Bolero - the chirping of crickets, the humming of cars on the highway, the rhythmic breathing of my sleeping wife. I moved my limbs again and again to confirm that I was able to move; I made a loud, guttural noise to confirm that I could hear myself; I sat up and grinned like a fool, beads of sweat on my forehead, my heart pounding like a drum, relief gushing over me and making me shiver uncontrollably. I was not dead.

That was then, two years ago. Since then I have had this episode several times. But now I am wiser. And more resigned. Now when I get into that state of death, I don't struggle and fight. I just wait to see if this is the end, or something or someone will jolt me back to life. I am convinced now that what I have been experiencing has been a sneak peek into the process of dying - what a person experiences and feels when he is transitioning from the mortal world to the afterlife. It is pretty scary, especially if one is not ready to die when death comes calling. 

Maybe I am getting closer to the end, and this is nature's way of preparing me for death, for the ultimate act of letting go of my most precious material possession - my body. I don't think I am ready yet, but at least now I know what it will be like. Death is like a scary horror movie, and my experience is like a very well-packaged trailer. I hate horror movies. I do.

High school reunion - my worst nightmare

With Whatsapp, the world has suddenly become a smaller place. I would like to thank Brian Acton for coming up with this, and  Mark Zuckerberg for recognizing its potential.

Needless to say, my classmates from high school have come together and formed a group. And the chatter and banter flow as if we were never apart. We are racking up over a thousand messages a day, and I have been contributing significantly to that. However, as soon as the pleasantries were done with, and adequate amazement had been expressed on hearing from each other over a two-decade hiatus, a collective desire was expressed to plan a reunion. And that's where I started getting cold feet.

No, I am not callous, nor am I unsocial or antisocial to any significant degree. I am scared, plain and simple. Scared of meeting old schoolmates, the bosom buddies of childhood and adolescence, the very people who were my life for nearly two decades, and who have definitely shaped up my personality to a large extent, and whom I have remembered every single day of my life after the separation. Yes, scared. Terrified.

Let's recollect our school days. There were friends, the ones that are for life. There was camaraderie, fun and frolic, gaiety, happiness, tears, competition, jealousy, animosity, hostility, make-ups and breakups, even a few affairs. After several years of separation, all that remains is nostalgia, memory of the good times, and the heartbreak of separation. And the realization that they were the best. Nothing can top or replace the bonds formed during school. However, there was something then that everyone has lost after living the conundrum called life for so many years. Innocence. And along with that have been lost, its companions, simplicity and and the adolescent ability to not judge people. And that is the cause of my fear.

We will go into that reunion all naive and excited, hoping it will be exactly like the good old days in the school canteen and at the school picnics. But a few hours into the event, we will realize that things are not exactly as we imagined. We will judge our friends with our world-weary minds and hearts and we will discover things that we don't like. And in that one moment, these friends will suddenly look ordinary. They will seem exactly like the people we call friends and acquaintances in our present daily life. The charm will wear off; the special feeling will be replaced by disappointment, and discontent.

And that special place that we fall back upon when we are melancholic or depressed or tired of fighting this disease called life - the memories of our glorious school days in the company of our best friends - that place which helps us recuperate and gives us the strength to stand up and fight some more - that will be lost. Violated for ever. I can draw a parallel here. If you go to your parents house and find your favorite toy in the attic, one that you firmly believed was your best toy ever, it will not seem so special anymore. You will be shocked to realize that this rag doll, or wooden toy car was the center of your universe for a few years, and has been embedded in your memory as something special for so many years.

And just for a few hours of fleeting joy, I am not willing to lose so much. Those memories and their warmth, as implanted in my mind - the source of my strength and the reason for my willingness to carry on - are priceless, and I am not mentally strong enough to let them go. Not at any cost. And so, I dread the day when this inevitable reunion will take place, and I dread the moment when I have to face my past, a past that I like the way I remember it.