It was getting dark. The room was getting dark. There were too many people. And the windows were all closed. He tried to look around, but these hospital beds, they don't let you move. Or maybe it was because of that cringey neck of his. Whatever it was, he knew he didn't have much time left. All these people who had gathered around, they were here because he was about to die. And so they could mourn his passing away, and yet breath easily as they themselves had now more space to occupy in this cosmic circus. He could feel it inside, like a push was being exerted on him, as if someone was just knocking on incessantly on the door, and he had to go and attend to it. Forceful, yet gracious. That push was urging him to let go of whatever worldly ties he had left, atleast the ones he could still feel.
He knew he wouldn't be seeing the sun shine again over the sea, which was just a few feets away from his home near that posh sea town, or hear birds coo in a spring night making sweet, sweet love. He knew life was just about to jump out of his infinity bound roof. The push was getting stronger, the urge, stronger.
Had he spent a good life? Well, he raised his kids well, he never really cheated, that is, he didn't have any coital relationships out of his marriage bonds, anything below that doesn't count. He always had had friends, friends who loved him, laughed along with him, and even cried a few times when he tried to make them laugh too hard. He had worked faithfully, he never really bitched about his boss, he accepted whatever salary he was paid, never accepted bribes, in cash. He had sent his son abroad, he had married off his daughter, his wife was dead already. What else could he have asked for before death? A last bite of that amazing shorshe ilish his mother used cooked once, that maybe. And suddenly food reminded him of his mother, his father, and all those long deceased, and long left behind images of men and women. He wanted a mother again, a father again, he wanted a new home, a new life, a new chance again. Suddenly, the life he had lived didn't seem satisfactory enough anymore. He had survived a world war, a division of his mother land, multiple wars across the world, multiple ups and downs in the economic chart. He had survived labour strikes, student agitations, police brutality, mob madness, he had survived history. He was mankind itself. Suddenly he felt he had seen so much, felt so much, yearned so much, dreamed so much, yet he was just about to die in a crummy hospital room which smelled of that clean, hygienic death.
He deserved more, his kind deserved more. He felt the whole mankind, the whole history of it, all the billion and zillion figures, all the achievements well up in him. He was about to burst open in a prudent atomic explosion, and if he did, this world, and all its revelers would see the history enacted before them, and they'd be so lucky to shake hands with so many great footsoldiers of a vast civilisation. He felt the push, he just wished this push to open him up before the world and show them what they have forgotten and buried in their civic closets, all the brutality, all the crudity, and yet all the beauty in between those vulgar fluid, wasted in time.
He once saw in a movie that when you're about to die, all your ancestors gather around you to take you back to your cradle. But he couldn't see anyone of them around. He had seen his parents alive, his grandparents too. And even the great-grandparents, he had seen their hazed out photos. But no one had come to receive him. Did it mean he wouldn't be dying this time? But the doc had given his words, he had assured his children that they can shed a few tears now, finally. He had seen the whole of it enacted before him, so that surely means he's about to die. Then, why haven't they come to receive him? Are they all too inside him, this tiny cage of his, were they pushing him too? Pushing him towards a final resting place? Or maybe were they waiting just on the other side of the frail veil he could see form before him, waiting to receive him in open arms?
His eyes were clouding up, he felt confused. Was he happy he was about to die, or did he still want a little bit more taste of the worldly boundaries. He couldn't understand, he couldn't understand himself, or his emotions, or this world anymore. Was he to die a bitter old man, or a satisfied human being who had found his answers among the wordless scribbles behind the math book of destiny itself?
He didn't know. And he didn't want to anymore. He could see the light outside the tunnel. He knew his end bound chariot had arrived. And he could feel himself being pushed towards the light. It was getting brighter, brighter by every eternity long nanosecond. He wanted to wave a last goodbye, give a last kiss to this world of his, this beloved world, but it was too late already. He was boarding his chariot, the light was blinding around him, the light, oh the sweet, warm light, the sweet sunshi...
He knew he wouldn't be seeing the sun shine again over the sea, which was just a few feets away from his home near that posh sea town, or hear birds coo in a spring night making sweet, sweet love. He knew life was just about to jump out of his infinity bound roof. The push was getting stronger, the urge, stronger.
Had he spent a good life? Well, he raised his kids well, he never really cheated, that is, he didn't have any coital relationships out of his marriage bonds, anything below that doesn't count. He always had had friends, friends who loved him, laughed along with him, and even cried a few times when he tried to make them laugh too hard. He had worked faithfully, he never really bitched about his boss, he accepted whatever salary he was paid, never accepted bribes, in cash. He had sent his son abroad, he had married off his daughter, his wife was dead already. What else could he have asked for before death? A last bite of that amazing shorshe ilish his mother used cooked once, that maybe. And suddenly food reminded him of his mother, his father, and all those long deceased, and long left behind images of men and women. He wanted a mother again, a father again, he wanted a new home, a new life, a new chance again. Suddenly, the life he had lived didn't seem satisfactory enough anymore. He had survived a world war, a division of his mother land, multiple wars across the world, multiple ups and downs in the economic chart. He had survived labour strikes, student agitations, police brutality, mob madness, he had survived history. He was mankind itself. Suddenly he felt he had seen so much, felt so much, yearned so much, dreamed so much, yet he was just about to die in a crummy hospital room which smelled of that clean, hygienic death.
He deserved more, his kind deserved more. He felt the whole mankind, the whole history of it, all the billion and zillion figures, all the achievements well up in him. He was about to burst open in a prudent atomic explosion, and if he did, this world, and all its revelers would see the history enacted before them, and they'd be so lucky to shake hands with so many great footsoldiers of a vast civilisation. He felt the push, he just wished this push to open him up before the world and show them what they have forgotten and buried in their civic closets, all the brutality, all the crudity, and yet all the beauty in between those vulgar fluid, wasted in time.
He once saw in a movie that when you're about to die, all your ancestors gather around you to take you back to your cradle. But he couldn't see anyone of them around. He had seen his parents alive, his grandparents too. And even the great-grandparents, he had seen their hazed out photos. But no one had come to receive him. Did it mean he wouldn't be dying this time? But the doc had given his words, he had assured his children that they can shed a few tears now, finally. He had seen the whole of it enacted before him, so that surely means he's about to die. Then, why haven't they come to receive him? Are they all too inside him, this tiny cage of his, were they pushing him too? Pushing him towards a final resting place? Or maybe were they waiting just on the other side of the frail veil he could see form before him, waiting to receive him in open arms?
His eyes were clouding up, he felt confused. Was he happy he was about to die, or did he still want a little bit more taste of the worldly boundaries. He couldn't understand, he couldn't understand himself, or his emotions, or this world anymore. Was he to die a bitter old man, or a satisfied human being who had found his answers among the wordless scribbles behind the math book of destiny itself?
He didn't know. And he didn't want to anymore. He could see the light outside the tunnel. He knew his end bound chariot had arrived. And he could feel himself being pushed towards the light. It was getting brighter, brighter by every eternity long nanosecond. He wanted to wave a last goodbye, give a last kiss to this world of his, this beloved world, but it was too late already. He was boarding his chariot, the light was blinding around him, the light, oh the sweet, warm light, the sweet sunshi...
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The about-to-be-a-first-time-father was pacing around tensely, when the doctor shot out of the labour him, bouncing towards him, his own brother he felt
"Dada, it's a girl, it's a girl, dada!" shot out the young man. The now-definitely-a-father stood perplexed for a moment or two, and then dashed towards the labour room then and there, rightfully followed by his elders, and her elders now. They all were eager to welcome the new sunshine, like a new dew drop to soothe, however temporarily, their worn out souls into this worldly abode.
The wait, was over. The new one, had arrived
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