Hell and Heaven

I am late.. pacing to the doors, sleep.. burdening my every steps, Why am I tired?! Is it because of the walk ( I coaxed and now accompany Mom for walk as fitness, ) and with those 2.5 kg ankle weights?! I don’t know, but now sleep has shackled with tones of weight than those miniscule ankle weights. I reach the door of the hospital, greet the staff, and I hit to the bed ( bed, really?) straight, that s just an arm length in its breadth, so no room for tossing and curling, but still man ‘s primitive instinct of lying on a branch high above the tree is still loaded in every genes and so I lied, closing my eyes, I felt a somebody, perhaps a baby’s hand with its tiny smooth nails, brushing my chest and abdomen, disturbing my sleep, but weird, it was from the inside, Yes, this is gastritis, ( Amma ( mom) says excess coffee, and no sleep) , I try to shout at the baby stop it, but then its of no use, I just ignored it, Today I didn’t need to count sheeps or imagine a heavenly hammock with lianas and dunapren( hand spun) like the girl in my Bulgarian short stories. Today I am dead, in sleep.

No, Not that dead, I realize my ancestral branch sleeping skill was not enough, I am tossing , turning, fretting, Nope this wasn’t a dead sleep, suddenly, I was in a bigger , familiar bed, I knew this bed, the smell, the colour and design, its warmth, I knew this bed, Oh yes ! this is my home,! Wow, I felt kissing the bed with gratitude , its embrace is more living than anything, and why do I say just a bed! No , not now, the bell, the door bell, Amma says, get up answer the door, answer it, Oh Bloody hell, the bell, I lift my hand to touch the mobile ( modern man does look his mobile first after the sleep, Not his wife, nor his friend or his children near by but his mobile, these small gestures looking into a person have meant to become intimidating action of a bigger choking love) Oh! Yes it wasn’t home, it wasn’t the door , it was the mobile ( newer instincts haha) I answered it, what ! my Uncle says Your relative has expired, the news of demise was not enough to shatter me out of the sleep, I said well, and before I finished the word, I slept.

Wail! What the hell, How can it be, I am not in that house, I am in the hospital, perhaps I dreaming, yes I think I am dreaming, Wail again , louder, tearing my doors and enough potent to tear my sleepy ear drums, I slammed the door open, an old man, cold clammy hands, profuse sweating, Blood glucose sample normal, Yes! Shock , I am awake, nope , I am half asleep, I shout, foot end elevation, IV access lines, Fluids rush, dopamine , drops, urinary catheter, I am in action, and I am in half sleep, the bleeps of the monitor, the boring graphs were extremely artistic, I ask, hey Old man, he answer me with What?! Damn, he is conscious, fluids rushing, I should ascultate, Lungs clear, that’s the word I used to hear, but today it was clearer, like a breeze gushing out of the thickest forest, Wow, I thought lungs clearer, who were those free tribal men playing a music Lub dub, Oh No! his heart, Old man , you have a rhythm boss! Stable, Inform physician, Lots of walks in and out of the corridor, I didn’t know, even the Sun has walked in with its lights.

Morning! Good ( sleepy ) morning, time to move, I feel those tiny smooth nails are not those anymore and they are not brushing either, this was a claw, tearing me , but from the inside, No this is nt the kiss of the excess of coffee, this is hunger, I am sleepy, hungry, walked in and out of a restaurant, and now I am in the bus, I think I had the breakfast, yes , I did ( rava dosa), But why did I think that, I should be thinking how the man pulled the braids of the lass, the sister of Brother Sheban, to the hodzha, since these were the lines I were reading from my book of Bulgarian short stories, But, I ran out of thoughts for those lines, and I ran out of my wakefulness, But I were not allowed to rest in peace, everytime the bus screeched to halt, I should shout me to wakefulness, to see if it is my stop. What fear, If I miss my stop, ( honestly no fear, but shame, the look of my co passenger, as if I were imbecile, I sometime cry within me am I so sinful to scowled to sleep pass through my stop).

I reach home, knocking , amma, amma, My dad ( oops), opens the door, says Mom has travelled to attend the funeral of the relative. Dad, real Oops, silence paused with sentences, have been our language, I know he wants to exercise his vocal cords with me, but he is Dad not a friend, aththa( dad), a greater judge, has struggled a lot, has lived a lot, aththa cannot give himself up to my petty persons’argument of egoless self, aththa forgives but never forgets. My silence was not of contempt due to too much familiarity, my silence is due to humility that I shall not try to win him. Our silence was pause, Aththa , so , where are you going, He answers, to the third day funeral prayer of our neighbor.

I am still not over with the sleep, still negotiating terms, I gave in, straight to the bed, Bright white afternoon, my roof with asbestos, never hints me of chillness, two fans, not a word of chill, a warm oven, or a coccon , ( coccon is better, coz I have lived and living, not adjusting or getting used to but living) Yes, I sleep, I am sleeping, Where am I, what is this, a place? A space? What is this, Nothing, no land, no landmarks, no horizon, no stars, all fused not in white ( absolutely not in white, not like Neo Anderson entering the architecht’s room) but in a monochromatic dull grey , as if it was a raincloud, just that it wasn’t on the sky or looking down the earth, It was just space.

Am I alone?! Nope, who is this?! I Know her, I run towards, my mind pacing to know the familiarty but my words already have sprouted out, I shouted Amma, what is amma doing here , in this space, what is the business, was she not at the funeral, I go have a closer look, she doesn’t see me, I find she is having a countenance of amma, but not only hers, she has the face of the Moms of my friends, nephews, even amma’s . She was Mother of all. Ripened with age not frail, but ripened, Her Bosom was burderned and drooped with over filled Motherhood. She was the Mother of All, I stood close and far enough, just to see her and not to be seen.

Here he comes, Son of Mother, she hugs and weeps of Love, as the sweet white frothy water of the spring, she makes him lie on the lap and holds him to the right bosom, and sways in a motherly way, and sang a word , Enough, Enough, my child who fed in my right breast, enough, You have struggled enough to come to see this old woman, enough, the son of the mother, suckled by the right breast, looked at her and smiled, again, she sang in words, what way my child of right breast, what smiles on your way, you made friends, talked about health, joy and love, You married a women, gifted her with time and words and not with diamonds and pearls, You made sons, played with them, taught them the fun of nature and strength of the sweat. Both smiles, and it was refreshing, heavenly.suddenly the Mother of all seems excited.

Here he come, son of Mother, she hugs and weeps of Love, as the sweet white frothy spring, she makes him lie on the lap and holds him to the left bosom, and sways in a motherly way, and sang a word, enough, enough my child who fed in my left breast, enough you have struggled enough to comme to see this old woman, enough, the son of the mother suckled by the left breast looked up to her and cried in exhaustion, She again sang in words, enough my child of fed by the left breast, you have struggled enough, What a way, You made ways and equipped to be better than your friends, you spoke with plans, You married wife, pleased with her presents and thoughts of what could still please her, You made sons, taught them how to be in safety, and earned and found ways to earn and to lock them up so your sons can live in safety. Enough! Both eyes meet, a grave exhaustion, for the son of the mother and for the Mother herself waiting for his return from his tiring world.

There on the space she with the sons of her both the breast, sitting, Not on pastures, not on golds, Not on desert and not on spitting fires, But just in that monochromatic space, Who is she?.! My heart races, who is this lady who resembles amma, and of all the mothers, who is this mother of all, My spine shudders, NO , NO , It can’t be, My heart is speeding, sweat, yes I feel the sweat pouring I want to move , but NO, NO, It can’t be, It is sacrilege, I want to get rid of the worst thought, I cried , NO this is blasphemy, I can no more stand in this blasphemous place, No she can’t be, no she can’t be and I broke my sleep with word ALLAH.

Tribute to the son of The woman,

Mangal ( my student)

Papparowther ( my neighbor)

Banuathha ( my relative)