SUNRISE

SUNRISE

Once upon a time, there was a Writer. He sat atop a plinth made of gold, dusted with diamonds and finished with the caresses of each one of His angels. He thought no wrong, He wrote no wrong. Each one of his stories were distinct from the other, walled off with immense care and reviewed to the last letter. There were no mistakes. No fallacies, or coincidences. It was a seamless and completely faultless procedure. And yet, there was one solitary thread that ran through each one of these tales, meshing them together, binding and interlacing the destinies of their characters.

The one thing, the only thing that makes the world go round.

She was...a person? A lady? A human? Maybe. I stopped thinking of her as any of these, way before it was proven, medically and otherwise. She was ‘something’. She started opening books at a time when most were closing them, she didn’t have ‘a’ home, she had so many that she didn’t even know what the word meant. Time played its part and one day, just like that, she had completed her masters with honors, from one of the best schools the country had. Nice, you say?

Her death warrant was signed the very next day. She was married.

She arrived in a new land; thrilled, happy, excited; afraid, nervous, shaken. The sights and scents were in vast contradiction to the ones she’d accustomed herself to over the years. The house was a thing of beauty, all French windows and billowy pale curtains. And him. He was an alien, someone she’d only known for a couple of weeks, and someone she was expected to love and to honor, to cherish and to uphold, forever and ever. Lovely. She did start off on this excursion with a heart full of ‘it’...that thread, the pasta dough that pushes out the primal within us. And thus, they were blessed with a baby boy and shortly after, twin baby girls.

It was one of those things. The first accident got her to the hospital and out in a couple of months. The second one made the cover story of almost every major newspaper in the city. She was admitted with nil chances of survival, and to add further insult to the injury, if she somehow did make it out alive, ‘please brace yourselves that she will most definitely be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life’. It was a blow, you say?

I couldn’t care less. I was two.

Something really sad happened then. She made a full recovery. She came home, everyone cried and it was all rainbows and unicorns. Like I said; sad. You see, what you don’t understand, what you will never understand, is that you’re being set up. The higher they rise, the harder they fall.

The fights began. They were mildly pyretic at first. Nothing to write home about. No need to pull out the fire extinguishers. Thing is, once the fire starts, is there really ever any way back?

And so, they grew. And grew. And grew.

‘Why would you be at his house at THIS TIME OF THE NIGHT? AND WHY do you smell of SMOKE?’

‘What the fuck you trying to say huh?? That I was having sex with him?? IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE SAYING?’

I was nine. The most worrisome part in all this, however, was the fact that I knew exactly what they were talking about. I knew ‘rape’ and ‘sex’ and ‘hell fire’ when I was six. These were the things, in that order, that were going to happen to me. She had first seen him on me when I was four. I remember it too, I remember his expression when he was caught, I remember her wails. The sound of her cries when she’d confided in her sister. The helplessness in her expression when she was trying to explain to a six year old the necessity of staying away from him, alternating between begging, threatening and crying. I understood. The crying made me understand. I thought it was enough. That if ‘I’ were to stay away, that would be enough.

 I was an idiot.

The bleeding started. She would bleed in the day and she would bleed in the night. I would place newspapers all across the tiled floors. Every inch was to be covered. She bled out in clots the size of a small country. Doctor after doctor, all visits made alone; no answers. Just more newspapers. That was the first time. The first time that one sentence escaped from the recesses of my subconscious and made its way to the front. Why doesn’t she just die already? I was suitably horrified the very next second. It was like saying ‘God’ and ‘Fuck you’ in the same breath. Unspeakable. The timelines were always skewed to perfection so that I’d be juggling my exams, housework, errands and hospital visits all at the same time. I’ve seen some people, you know those reviewers that come on TV and after each episode of a family drama web series filled with tragedy, they say ‘There’s just no relief anywhere. Why don’t they give us some relief somewhere?’ I know the answer to that now. Its because there is no relief in real life. The good doesn’t come with the bad. Its bad, then worse. Full stop, capeesh?

A year passed, then another. After infinite plus one visits to the hospital we found someone who gave us a cure, she was operated on, and finally, after aeons of painful, devastating nights, there was one with a full nights sleep. New beginning, I smiled to myself the next morning. Its all behind us. Upwards and onwards.

She was diagnosed with urinary tract infection the next week.

 We wake up each day, fold our hands before God and pray. We pray for a better today and a better tomorrow. Filled with promises and sunshine. There was a new prayer thrown into the mix after the arguments had reached an all new level of violence, with doors being broken and vessels smashed into the wall. ‘Let’s ask God to give us a new home, ok? We’re going to leave this nightmare far behind, and we’re going to ask God everyday until he gives us a beautiful home, and then, it’ll just be us, won’t that be great?’ Yeah, great! I believed it. You may be shaking your head now but the belief of a teenager when they want to believe is like love. Blind, deaf and totally dumb. The house never came, but God did compensate us by worsening her infection to a point where no medication would help. ‘Its a resistant UTI, I’m afraid, we’re just not able to have any success, you’ll need to see a specialist,’ the doctor said. There was a buzzing in my ear right then, a little ringing which seemed to be growing louder and louder each second. I was furious. I was seething with rage. But that wasn’t the worst part. There was something else. I began resenting her for the first time that day. What kind of life is this? Is this all there is for me? Why am I being punished like this? What did I do? The questions were both mute and moot.

Two years later

‘Oh my God, THIS IS DIVINE. I need a recipe, right now.’

We had moved back to our home country. The man inflicting us with verbal and physical abuse for years was adamant. What we didn’t know was that, that one flight changed our lives around. For the first time we had something. Autonomy. At first, the sound of nothing was disturbing, almost as if I just didn’t deserve to live without bombs going off in my house every moment. It soon became paramount. We’d just finished hosting another successful dinner and the ladies were gushing at her culinary skills, as usual. The days of self doubt, resentment and hatred were behind me.

‘It’s like a .. I don’t know exactly, its just...something hard.’

 I didn’t need this. I didn’t want this. No, please, no. I was older now, I didn’t have the patience or the compassion of my teenage self. Was this necessarily a bad thing? No, it wasn’t. ‘We’re going to the doctor tomorrow. Its probably nothing, but best be sure.’

‘Breast Cancer. Stage 2. You’re lucky you were able to identify the lump, most women don’t notice until its too late.’ And then, the doctor smiled.

There are moments in life, when everything becomes relative. You fall in love, and all of a sudden, the stinky cafeteria mac n cheese tastes like heaven because he’s there, holding your hand and looking into your eyes. You ace an exam and all your past failures stop mattering. A hurricane or an earthquake upsets the land, and all your avarice gets quashed. This was that moment. I was numb. I’d never heard of this word before. It was something that happened to other people, mostly those on English TV shows, and I was already past the resentment part of my life, wasn’t I? Then how? How did this happen? Again, there was not even the remotest point in self indulgence.

The surgery was scheduled the next week after all necessary tests and clearances. I had already decided I was going to be no part of it. It just wasn’t in my wheelhouse.

‘Don’t let go of my hand ok? You’re all I have. We’re going to be ok, we’ll be great, and just you wait, I’ve spoken to your aunt, and she promised to call us abroad after all this is done. We’ll have so much fun darling. Just us, a whole new life, a new fancy house, just you wait.’ It was all I could do not to scream.

The surgery was successful. The tumor was removed, and was to be followed up with chemotherapy. I stood in the post-op room watching her smile at me, it was excruciating. I wanted to annihilate the pain, the trauma that I’d seen but there was no reprieve. Even as I watched, her tongue rolled up and her eyes went into the back of her head. I shrieked. The interns on duty came in and handled the situation, ‘just a reaction to the anesthetic,’ but I knew. It was only the beginning.

The chemotherapy rendered every single past malady of her life meaningless, like a series of benevolent favors instead of the soul crushing ordeals they had actually been. It gave the word ‘never ending’ a new meaning. I could see a therapist for the rest of my life after that and it wouldn’t even abrade the surface. It was dark corridors, and endless phone calls, and day after day of morning, afternoon and evening sickness. It was not having the strength to open your mouth to be fed and not having the interest to sit up or stand or walk, and not having the anything really, to be anything, to do anything. It would be over for a merciful few days, and then, it would begin all over again.

I was in my final year of college. It was my last semester when the Gods had laughed in my face and turned the tables on me. But, the last laugh wouldn't be theirs this time. Because I had learnt my lesson. I knew now what I’d needed to know all along and it wouldn’t have been so hard, or so baffling. The voices in my head had come back with a vengeance, after all these years. And everyday, they would repeat the same thing. Every time I’d see her unconscious, the voices would ask, is she dead yet? The end of the chemotherapy was marked with an onslaught of infections, episodes of explosive diarrhea, increased intra ocular pressure, and each time the voices would ask, is she dead yet? A few weeks after her chemotherapy had concluded, she woke me up in the morning screaming in pain saying she couldn’t see anything out of her left eye. I was shocked to find out she’d stayed awake all night crying and the stress of it had spiked her IOP to a point where she’d lost complete vision in that eye. And the reason for her all-nighter was something I could not have predicted in my wildest dreams or worst nightmares. The entire cancer surgery and the chemotherapy were paid for by her. Apparently, not only had he refused to pay for anything at all, he hadn’t even bothered to visit her once.

Is she dead yet? Is she dead yet? Is she dead yet?

Two weeks later

3 am

I was asleep when I heard the first sounds. The unmistakable sound of retching made me sit up and run to her room. She was keeling over, and her hand was cupped over her mouth. I struggled to help her and found myself staring at two bloody hands. She’d coughed up half of her body's weight in blood.

3:10 am

‘Its going to be okay, we’re going to be okay’. That futile trite line. I already knew there was no point in hoping otherwise. My voices, my hopes had now grudgingly receded to the back of my head, unfulfilled and dissatisfied. I do not understand your confusion (wanting her dead?) and maybe consternation (willing it?)

Did you not learn anything by now? Have I not told you enough for you to get it?

3:40 am

The neighbor honked. We obviously didn’t have a car, because that would just be too convenient. And so we waited for our savior to show up. It only took half an hour. As I walked her to the car, her arm slumped around my shoulder, I couldn’t help the bubble forming slowly in my chest. Is she... I shook my head violently, no, of course she’s not. You daren’t get your hopes up again.

4:30 am

I remember the noise. There was none. It was almost like a metaphor, the tranquility against the urgency of the situation. The growing, deafening quiet. ‘What is it?’ She’d been lying on the stretcher for a while now, eyes closed, as they ran one ECG, then another, and then a third. There was no noise. It was playing out like report card day, awaiting my result after submitting the exam papers.

‘Is there anyone older I can speak to?’

‘No. You can talk to me.’

 ‘Alright then. Please try to understand. She was dead before she reached here, there’s nothing to be done and nothing that could have been done. If you’d brought her sooner....death certificate....ambulance...address...’

She was gone. She had died. Dead. She was...I found a smile growing on my face and squashed it before anyone could see. It finally happened. The report card was beyond my expectations. The relief was mind numbing. Do you get it now at least? I’m sure you do. People can only hurt you till you let them. The same postulate applies to your life. I learnt my lesson a long time ago. The pain would never end as long as I kept hoping for recovery, a cure, a new house, a healthy life for her. So it was time to stop. Time for acceptance. And a new kind of aspiration.

I will never forget the sunrise after my mother died. The last laugh was mine.

Hope really does make the world go round.