A Call for Christmas

It’s that time of the year again. The lights, the music, the cheer and warm feelings—just when everyone appreciates home and love before going back to another eleven months of emotional coldness.

As usual, I’m sitting at my desk, surrounded by papers and books. The window is closed, like always. I turn to glance at the white clock on my desk. It is half-past seven. Almost an hour, I had been solving physics since the past one hour.

Distracted, I pick up my phone and turn the internet on. No notifications. No messages or missed calls. Not even promotional ones. Sometimes I wondered if people could really forget you—you know for one moment, it’s like you’re the best person I’ve ever met and then a few days later it’s like: I don’t even remember who you are.

‘Sona! Are you listening or not?’

My mother’s voice snapped me back to reality. ‘Yes, yes, mummy. What happened?’ I ask as politely as possible.

‘Go and fetch some kababs; I’ve already given the order.’

‘But that’s near the beach and I don’t even have my sweater—’

‘Did I tell you to get it lost?’ she says icily.

‘That’s alright, I’m going,’ I replied instantly, not in a mood to listen to another ramble of what made me such an unsatisfactory personality. I changed into jeans and put on a full-sleeved kurta. Tying my hair in a ponytail, I grabbed the keys and swung the door behind me. My musings resumed.

People, I mean friends have the unwanted habit of forgetting you. Until you are together, it’s almost like you’re everything and once things start to separate a bit, conversations get shorter and shorter. And at times, it feels like you’re the only person who’s trying to keep the friendship alive. And that, for me, is the worst feeling in the world. I feel like a leech-worm, desperately clinging to others for survival. Then, I get stuck in a mental loop and then I withdraw. I go silent for days, months on end. And I don’t talk. And I sit in my room, draw my knees to my chest, close all doors and windows and weep in silence. Honestly, my pillow has almost been washed by my tears!

I turn the accelerator and speed the scooter. The chill wind makes my eyes water. My cheeks almost feel raw. The hairs are standing up on my arms and shoulders and a shiver runs down my spine. Sometimes I just don’t understand how I can think and drive at the same time.

Momentarily paused, I check the rear-view mirror to see if any vehicles are approaching. Finding them at a safe distance, I press the left button and the signal starts beeping. I turn the scooter to the side of the road and get down. Grabbing a bag from the trunk, I go to the stall under a tree and suppress a shiver.

‘Excuse me sir, do you have any kababs? Someone must have ordered it.’

The chef raises his eyebrows and hands over a bag to me. I pick the bag and pay him. I notice the people at the stall. They’re smiling and shaking with laughter. Their eyes are twinkling. There’s a group of friends who’ve apparently sneaked out of their houses. They’re hitting each other.

‘It was you who started it,’ the girl in black t-shirt says.

‘Yeah, and you are the sweetest angel on earth!’ retorts the boy in white t-shirt. His hair is untidy and he has a silver chain in his neck. He laughs like an idiot.

Another girl in green kurta is laughing but she holds herself in. She simply smiles, almost glad that she is here with the people she feels warm. These people are her home. Just the way I used to feel with my friends.

Sometimes, I wonder how many stories we have around us. Every person is a new story, a new set of experiences and emotions.

‘—20 Rs.!!’ says a stern voice. I blink. The shopkeeper is holding out a note to me. Realising that I had been lost in my thoughts again, I hastily slide the note in my pocket and leave. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see the group leaving too.

‘So, how are you going?’ asks the boy in the white t-shirt to the girl in the green kurta.

‘I—just…’

‘Come on, are you dropping me or not?’ asks the black t-shirt girl, pressing the key in his bike. He casts one glace at her and goes toward his bike.

I turn my key and the engine ignites. Shaking my head, I narrowly avoid an accident and drive past a scooter. What on earth did I have to stare at that group for? I was being freshly reminded of the same incidents that had happened with me since the beginning of summer-break.

The chill wind does not affect me as much as the chill inside my stomach. The other side of the road ends in a shallow drop of about 20 metres, lined with thorny bushes or trees at the very least.

I put my legs down to stop as the truck before me comes to a sudden halt. Its buzzer starts beeping. The signal for reversal. The distance between us is barely more than a few feet. Almost as if time had slowed down, I see the orange metal body slowly moving towards me. My mind is jumping. There would no time for goodbyes. I still have to crack my NEET. What about my dream of going to Mumbai? I haven’t even spoken to Pranay!!! If only I could have yelled at him for once, told him why I was upset at him…how I’d felt when of all people, he’d chosen to forget me almost as if I’d never been his friend.

Do I have to end like this? With nothing? How would death feel? Would I ever feel anything again? Will my family miss me? How will everyone react on seeing my body? Will there even be something left of me??

Instinctively, I press the horn and about a few inches from my scooter, the truck stops. I turn my scooter and stop near the window of the truck.

‘Can’t you drive properly?’

‘I just wanted to go reverse…’

‘You could have killed her!!’ a middle-aged man stops his bike beside mine and yells at him.

‘You ok?’ his wife asks.

I simply nod. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’ And without another word, I drive to home, looking as if for the first time at all the decorations, the lights and the beautiful trees. The wind is almost warm, like a welcoming smile.

I park my scooter and slide my phone out of my pocket. I open the dialer and type the numbers the contact immediately showing up. I click on it and the call connects.

‘Hello,’ says the familiar voice in an almost surprised voice.

‘Is my number even saved on your contact list?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, but what happened?’

‘What happened? You idiot! Six months! It’s been six months since we talked, you’ve almost forgotten me…and you have all the time in the world to talk to your other friends and you barely even care if I’m alive or dead and now...,’ I pause for breath, ‘you dare to ask what happened?’