The Oblivion

The Oblivion(Medhashri Mahanty) OBLIVION

The day Guddu dada died was technically the scariest day of my life. I was not literally sad, or lamenting over a loss, I was shocked, I was afraid.

I grew up in a small town with an unmotivated mentality. My parents were not exactly romantic, their marriage could be defined as a bond that grew out of dependence, trust and an almost mythical belief, which raged through their minds, that marriages are meant to work.

I have often asked my mother whether she was happy about their marriage, and she had always pecked me, saying that the happiest fact about this negotiation is my birth. My parents were undemanding. They accepted my emotional and intellectual freedom, and have managed themselves with the flowing of time.

My exposure to the twenty first century, shaped me, formed me, and it happened rapidly, so much so that often times I would have a conflicting conversation with my parents demanding more liberty. However, I never looked down upon my praxis.

My parents looked up to me for their emotional relief. Strictly speaking, they were not dependent on me, but I knew, that in all probabilities, if I stood beside them, then they could have fought with the world.

I have seen death, I can smell it, but perhaps due to my phlegmatic nature, no death could twist and shake me, as did Guddu dada’s decease. The day he passed away, was sometime in the middle of April, I was back at school then. Nobody bothered to inform me, before I reached home. I was satisfied with the day, and I was returning back. I got off the bus, walked down and when I reached the lane that connected the main road to my house, I could feel certain eeriness. It was a cloudy afternoon, and the overpowering eccentricity of someone unknown, seemed to swell me up.

I could smell something unusual. Somewhere amidst the busy two wheelers and creepy bicycles, I could see the desolate road, and everything looked uncertain. I went up to my mother, asking her, in an impromptu way, then in a demanding tone, what went wrong. I wondered if she and my father had had a hot argument, or whether they were facing some sort of family trouble from my maternal uncle’s place, or if Neha is again sick. They kept silent. They preferred silence. No one uttered a single word, till I eventually screamed at them.

There was now this feeling of a dominating surprise. There are certain issues which never register, till they are mechanically stored. Guddu dada and Death were two conflicting ideas. I could never come to terms with the fact that a young lad of only twenty, a champion player, could die of a fragile, a deadly heart attack.

I could feel my stomach churning through and through. There was a metaphorical rush that took toll over me. I wanted to hide, to run away, I could not decide what exactly could be done. They asked me if I was willing to pay the last visit. I rejected. Memories came flooding almost blinding my eyes with hot tears. I remembered, during the Durga Pujo days, he would silently sneak away with my glass of lemonade, or would irritate me saying that I looked the ugliest, and then to end the mock fight, I would be allowed an ice cream treat.

To be true, there were not many memories attached to him. We barely met, due to our stringent life, however, we had grown up almost together. Our life was attached to the same place, our parents had known each other for over twenty years now, our thought process begun in a similar way. Our life style was alike. We shared a bond, an unspoken one, of a common feeling of camaraderie.

Death comes, taking our dear ones away. No one seems to understand the mystery of the process, it just happens. Death, which is the only evitable truth of life. Death that makes life an adventure. We blame the Supreme for everything. I was not different. I repeatedly questioned the heavens, there was no reply. We are play toys, all of us held together in a singular thread, and it just tears, and you go away.

However, amidst such a hushed dilemma, I wondered, how selfish we all are. No one mourned for the sake of Guddu dada. Absolutely none. Kakima cried because she could not live without her son. She could not bear the grief. We felt sad because, we lost such a good person, and to an extent we tried to envisage the sorrow, exchanging our position with Guddu dada’s relatives.

The next day was unusually calm. It seemed as if nothing really happened, except that there was a huge void somewhere. Time heals it all. We continued our chores. My education, my celebration, my parents’ life, our neighbourhood, nothing really was disturbed. Even, Guddu dada’s parents tried to live once more, joining the fragilities of life, trying to live for the sake of Gublu, the younger kid.

I was scared because I never thought Death can be so strong, so violent, and so random. I have read about Death, but this was a practical experience. For a few days, the local newspapers created a mess out of this, but eventually this too ceased.

I learnt about the uncertainty of life. Life, that dances under the constant watch of Death. A few days passed, and then as Time flies, the rains came. The monsoons are not messy after all, they took away the dried leaves, and gave a serene shower to the leaves of our garden.

I grew up. I became busy in my work; my father was engrossed in counting his profits, my mother delved in her research work. We sort of forgot the affair, except at times, we would make statements out of it. Occasionally, during the rainy nights, my mother would hug me tight, trying to hide me from Death’s authoritative glaze, I could feel the zeal in her embraces.

Another April came, another day passed, and our lives went on.