Undertaking To Perfection

Fiction


Death

 

                      I lay at rest amidst the unsettling ruckus of the constant announcements from the speakers. I see people around me, a lot of them too. People passing by their busy schedule, many sitting around and few morosely bidding their hope laden farewell to the loved ones.

“What am I doing here?”

Well, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself since time initial but haven’t quite found the answer for it. One thing is for sure that I am not overly attached to what I do and there is still a subtle line of difference between what I do and what I love. There’s always scope for an ‘exit’ here and there, but I better not use that wild card yet. There’s a lot to be done and achieved.

I have grown accustomed to the dim lights of the ceiling and watching the flies buzz into the blue. I smell its usual burnt carcass or maybe it’s just my imagination playing tricks upon me. At this point I don’t care that I miss a few details based upon my inability to focus on what is and what isn’t. I pass through the corridors and watch people behind the glass.

“How are they so different?”

I ponder. There seems to be emotions of many hues in the lives of these fellow passengers. I see little kids running around with a Lays chips packet crumpled neatly around Saif Ali Khan’s head and into their hands; their shoes making the usual ‘piku-piku’ sound with every step they take. I see their concerned family running behind them in pursuit of the life that was never theirs.

My fingers ache with the burden of present going to past. I remember how I was taught, trained and educated, yet every time I travel, I travel without a mission. I gaze through the window and see people waiting in line to lift off to their past; their kin waving them goodbyes. These goodbyes were never meant to be, nor were they meant to depart; those last moments of their holidays flashing through their mind in fraction of seconds, I sense some empathy rising within me.

“Where do you want to go?”

Home is not the answer, it never was. The route from this life station is pretty clear - you can stay forever in the transit or proceed to the next stop. Of course, our establishment doesn’t require a passport, nor a ticket. Just make sure that you are not insured from head to toe and we’ll personally guarantee you a safe passage to enlightenment.

 

I go and sit in my usual counter as the next passenger comes in. She doesn’t speak and I feel her body; cold. I remove her cloth and there lay a beauty that had been. I touch her head, her lips, her breast and stitch the opened wound to none. I make her anew, perhaps the best she had ever been for a while and send her off to the holy pyre.

Undertaking to perfection.

Sketch By: Kislaya Sinha


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