Eight Minutes

I never thought my final words would be constrained to a typewriter. By now, one would think I would have upgraded my communications to a computer. Perhaps someday that computer would be able to speak for me. Make the sounds that I am unable to form with my own vessel. Alas, it is not so. I have only eight minutes to type this letter.

    Many have come to me throughout my forty-eight year lifetime asking for answers. A young lady about to get married, a child with cancer, an old man sentenced to chronic illness, a dog with no will to go another day without food. Every person in the village has ducked beneath the straw bouts of my shack at least once, has fallen to their knees in anguish and distress, begging me to enlighten them about what their future holds. Never would I have predicted the sun would die so soon.

    You see, I can only see accurately into the futures of living things, because living things want an accurate answer. But the universe – planets and comets and moons and suns – does not need reassurance. The sun did not tell me it was going to die until two minutes ago. Oh my – only six minutes before I am swallowed by the sun’s scorching arms. It does not feel real. Not in the slightest.

    I have no time to warn the world. I am bound to my chair and have been mute since a young boy. Even if I were to post this letter around the village, no-one would stop to look at it. No-one would have time to get on an aeroplane and flee to the other side of the Earth. Only few will survive the immediate impact of the sun exploding. They will be a diverse bunch of both adults and children scattered across the United States, Canada, Mexico, and Africa. After several months, they will die off. No plants will grow and they will not know how to find or care for a greenhouse. Their canned soups will only last until February. They might reach for dirt, but without living microbes crawling through it, it is nothing but a handful of sand.

    Perhaps I should be grateful that I am ending this way. I don’t have to suffer a long and painful death like those on the other side. And one could say that to die at my infamous typewriter is a poetic way to go. Without any humans left to think or feel, I’m not sure it matters whether it is poetic, or what poetic means. Suns don’t know our vocabulary.

    My watch reads 2:04 PM. My god, how do I only have four minutes left? I can only type so quickly. This is the time people invite their neighbors for chai. Or sit around the living room chatting with their family over lunch before heading back to work. I am all alone, which is not any new circumstance. As a child, though, it was much diffrnt.

    My mum worked in a clothing factory and dad was a construction manger. We had decent money so we had a live-in maid and persnal driver. They were like family, surrounding us every hour of t he day in one way o r anoter. Id be the one to pour the chai and set out the dried mangos and give up my bedroom for guests. Hundreds of cousins wou ld cycle throug staying with our family. A lot of them liked to travel and go on pilgrimage, and we were the perfect pit stop. I also had a sister named Aarnav – a boy’s name but my parents did not care for gender traditions. She had a smile that lit up any roo m and loved to laugh at my raunchy jokes. She was taken by the flu at age eleven. No-one saw it coming, except for me. I didn’t leave her side for the few weeks leading up to her falng ill. I let her win evry board game we own and stopped fighting over what channel we wat ched over the TV. She died peacefully in her sleep curled up beside me. Thankfully I didn’t catch the flu.

    Now I think maybe I shld have t r ied to get it from her becas I wouldnt have to experience the final breath of earth. I know better than to dwell on what could have been because I know what is ment to b will be. My god, I havnt typed this poorly in all my yrs. 2:08 pm.

    There is a window in front of the desk I sit at and it is a brilliant blue sky. No-one wold ever suspect that perfectly bright sun to die. Part of me hopes that two minuts from now the sky will still be blue. But my predictons are never wrong.

    The unverse has whispered a secret to me in these last few moments. There wll be one. One who will survive. Not sure how they will do it on their own or if theyll b abl to keep the human race alive, but my god, there will be one who survives this tragedy. It makes me smle knowing tht person isnt me. I wldnt b ab le to do anything at my age. I mst now say goodbye to my vllage and the entirety of india. pakistan, china, russia. All the wars will be put to bed six ft under just like all o f us. Except fr that one.

    I suppose if you are reading this, you are that one. I don’t know wht advce i can giv you but if you are lucky enough to find and rea d ths, a book abt becoming a visioner like me is in the lockbox undr my bed. Ppl think it is a born gift. It isnt. You study it like witchcraft. You keep it a secret btwn just y ou and th univrse. One can only lea rn it if th ey want to. The six digit code i s 672 fgnmkjnjzkds