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Grief: A quartet

February 15, 2011

Then suddenly, you died.

It was a washed out afternoon, downpour never stopped. Your breathing was as noisy as the gusts of wind rattling the rusted iron gate outside. I was sitting beside you, on the floor, staring at your huge belly go up and down, like a wounded toy. They show in movies how if one stares at a thing too long, the vision blurs when one enters into a deep thought-world. That must have happened to me because when the clock chimed four and un-reveried me, you were as inert as the calm outside. Rain had stopped, trees were still and there was even a hint of sunshine.

I felt robbed of seeing you die.

Ten years of patched up love, seven years of living in, three years of terminal disease, two years of hanging by the death thread, three death scares and then, poof! I always believed if I saw you die, it will be a closure, a confirmation that you are actually gone for good. Now, you might as well be holding your breath till eternity. Damn my reveries!

I was reliving a memory of your fake death.

A few years ago, during our worst fight, I told you to ‘go die’. Then I stormed out of our cramped apartment to get some air and plan how to break up with you. I returned an hour later and found you sprawled on the floor, a drawstring around your neck, and scrawled on the floor with red marker, “I won’t live without you. So, I die”. I was hysterical. You had held your breath even when I thumped your chest with my clenched fists. Then, you giggled like a little girl.

There used to be a little girl in me who cried for you at nights.

Then suddenly, she died.

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