By Sharon Michelle Upputuru
~
It is said that after a person dies, the brain continues to live for seven minutes,
replaying the person’s memories as their life flashes before their eyes.
~
The world goes blank, a sheet of white paper with nothing but specks of ink on it. Splattered and dotted with black, words begin to take form.
A sudden jolt jostles my body, running up my spine. My eyes snap open and my skin breaks into a cold sweat. My vision blurs, a static television. One like my grandfather’s. The one he refused to throw away because it was the device that used to play my grandmother’s films. No one cared for them. Except grandfather of course. Perhaps the last remnant of her. The only part that made him feel sane amongst all the chaos without her. Black-and-white scenes, set in Mumbai, shot with her trusty Camcorder.
I can’t seem to remember properly.
My breaths are so quiet I can’t hear them. I cannot feel them whirring in my mechanical mind.
Why does everything seem so far away? My mind, my thoughts. The very thing that held me to the ground and kept me firm. Spots flooding my vision as the cool breeze breathes my skin back to life. The wind blows into my eyes. Every nerve ending in my cold body coming alive as a single drop of water splashes against my shoulder, rolling down to the crease of my elbow. A single teardrop from the sky, the night hiding me in its shadows of what feels like a memory.
The wind whispers its stories in my ears, long tales of death and life.
My eyes snap open, the black horizon replaced with that of the side of the street. Low lamps hanging from trees, the smell of cigarettes pinching my nose. The sight of an old uncle enters my gaze. Cycling away from the rain in a torn white t-shirt, his balding head gleaming as a spot of light shines on what remains of his hair. The whispering hum of an old melancholic Tamil song reached my ears.
He suddenly yells profanities in his native language as the cycle twists and wobbles, he splashes into the ground, evaporating into the rain as a military tanker comes suddenly, lights blinking, and runs over him and his bicycle.
I let out a quiet exclaim, but my voice refuses to show up, hiding in my throat, away from the obscene insanities unravelling in front of me. I glance around, my shoulders aching as raindrops pelter against my skin. I pinch the side of my sleeve away from my skin, looking up at the sky. There are no stars here, in the dead of night. Raindrops reflecting the lights in the street, a forgery of the stars.
Suddenly, my body jerks forward, as if time is bringing me towards the end of itself. My mind lurches forward and I clench my eyes shut. Pain shocks my body and I hug my arms to the center my waist, trying to fight whatever phantom is set out against me.
Crawling under my skin and taking my mind captive.
What else could this be?
My feet slip and my hands fall against the harsh, coarse gravel. A gasp leaves me as my palms reach out to the ground, gravity taking over my senses. My eyes flick open and I stare at my bed – the cobbled street beneath my body. Amongst the creases, neem pods burst and clog my sinuses. I try to push myself up and a frown comes over me. My hands come away, dirt and gravel slipping into the creases of my palms. My gaze starts tilting as the building comes into proportion, the world zooming in and a house stands in front of me, old and ghosted. Its windows shattered and its shutters flung open. Its porch is overflowing with vines, creeping up its doorway. My eyes snap closed, having memorized this memory. This feeling imprinted on my mind, yet I don’t seem to know where I am.
I become suspicious of my own mind. This problematic, gaudy moment is shining like a proud jewel, amongst all the other memories stored in my mind.
The door slams with a bang and I flinch, squinting my eyes as I try to set the scene in front of me. Different sets, different actors, one play. Glass shatters and a butterfly flutters out of the crack in the sturdy frame.
My eyes track the figure moving out of the house, down by the wilted roses. Dressed in a black kurta, a tall frame steps towards me, hands in the pockets, head full with graying, shaggy hair that is hiding the eyes. Through the rubble, he nudges his way away from me. His head turns back and his eyes meet mine, dark and bloodshot, rivers of blood running across the white plain around his black irises.
“Hey!?” I scream, hands reaching out and trying to grab his elbow.
“What?” He grunts, frustrated, glancing back.
“Where are we?” I snap back.
His eyes die a little as they snap away and he disappears behind a chai wala.
“Okay, Mister dark and ominous.” I think in my head, rolling my eyes.
My feet start moving, the clouds beckoning me inside. The air settles into a mist, a fog shadowing my ankles and reaching up my knees and drowning me.
I stare at the door, my hands white, as I reach the pale blue door, paint chipped at its edges and the smell of rusted metal clangs at my nose. The door opens with a creak and I hesitate. My foot disappears under the mist. The room inside takes form, carpets shifting and floorboards snapping into place. Another set being put. The curtains were pulled up far too early.
Chills writhe up my calves and my bones start aching. Hiding underneath my skin, the pain resonates. Shivers crawl up my spine and my head feels light.
I look around the walls. Photo frames drift from the mist, hanging themselves onto the wall to my right. A teapot sings in the kitchen but I ignore it, my feet following the shaggy red carpet that leads to a room. A buzzing sound, a thousand bees buzzing in unison, floats to my ears. A gasp escapes me, as I see my grandfather's television sitting on the table. Its wires scattered and flowing like thick, oil- spill rivers from the table, reaching the ends of the room. There is not one light turned on, only the faint flicker of the television turned on. Black and white dots flickering on the curved screen. Gravity sits on my shoulders once again and I slowly descend to the floor sitting cross legged like I used to do as a child waiting for the cartoons to start again and for the boring advertisements about milk to pass away.
Suddenly the grain fades away and a monochrome film starts. The scenes seem so familiar as I watch with glazed eyes, scared that if I blink the ink will fade away.
But then I recognize a scene with a start. I pinch the skin of my wrist, blinking my eyes shut, sure that this was a dream.
The scenes fly by.
I watch carefully, wondering if it's really me, as I run through the mustard fields. The scene shifts, and I see my father, clad in his white cotton kurta, calling me for dinner. When I don’t listen, he runs after me, laughing as he catches me. He picks me up by my shoulders, swinging me in the air before depositing me on his shoulders. Tears prick my eyes.
The set changes and I’m at my high school graduation.
My math teacher, an old man with a white beard.
The time I almost drowned in the pool, my father, my beloved father, came to rescue me in his white cotton kurta. It all seems so small, my life as it flashes before my eyes,
The final scene sets in place. The bombs echoing in my ears, the sound of my beating heart coming to an end as my grandmother’s rioting city collapses in front of me. A sharp sound fills the air and everything flashes back to me.
The hollow in my chest widened and sudden pain spread up my neck, like a paintbrush softly painting pain over my skin. Like claws of an eagle, the pain latches to my skin and no breath comes to me.
The movie ends fading black. No grain. No static.
The black screen stares back at me.
I don’t frown when I see my reflection on the screen, sure that what I see is an illusion. But when I glance down, a gasp leaves me. My white sweater, stained red.
No breaths come to me, and it dawns me – that my evening had come and I left before I knew.
My gaze tilts.
The world goes blank again.
(The end)
(The actual end)
By Sharon Michelle Upputuru
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