The Last September

September tiptoes into my room.

The golden rays of the Autumn sunshine peep in silently, through the open window, overlooking my beautiful garden. The gentle Autumn breeze whispers into my ears, distant songs of a nameless bird and unheard tales of the rustling leaves of gold. I see the trees in my garden adorned with white blossoms, their fragrance bringing back memories of the last September.

Suddenly, September comes to a standstill. I hear him, I hear him playing the flute. It’s been a long time. I haven’t heard him play since last September. A single note of ecstasy pierces the stillness of the Autumn morning.

September tiptoes into my heart…….

As I lay in my bed, covered in a blanket, humming that note to myself, a girl walks in. She wears a high ponytail and a pair of spectacles. She walks up to the bed, leans in closer and smiles. I put on my glasses. A familiar pair of dark brown eyes look down at me. Ah! The doctor.

“So how do you feel now?”, she asks.

“I am perfectly fine. I didn’t know you were coming to see me.” I smile.

“It’s beautiful outside, isn’t it?”, I say after a long pause.

And then, I go back to humming the song of last September.

                                                    ---------------

It’s dark outside. I sit near my window, knitting a woolen sweater for him. Soon, October will come to an end and November will be cold. I look outside. I see my garden with its naked trees, blissfully asleep. The scent of night jasmine fills the air. He loves night jasmines. It is the only flower that blooms around this time of the year. When every other tree stands bare against the October winds, the brave night jasmine blooms in a shy corner of my garden, in the veil of darkness of the night and drops off silently at dawn, long before the other trees wake up. I lose myself in the sweet scent of memories and night jasmines. Slowly, I drift off to sleep.

Something pulls me back from my dreams. I wake up with a start.

There is a strong smell coming from somewhere.

Smoke!

Something is on fire. The smell grows stronger. A burning, acrid stench leaves me numb. Smoke darker than the night chokes me. I panic. I can’t see anything in the dark. I flash my torch outside. I stand frozen.

My garden is on fire!

“Help! Fire…in my…. my garden!”, I cry, gasping for breath. I run outside, coughing and panting. I run into a young girl. “Fi… fire”, I manage to say, breathing heavily. I feel dizzy. My eyelids threaten to close. The world goes black.

I wake up. I find myself in my bed. Someone helps me put on my glasses. I see a young girl.

“Who are you?”, I mumble.

“I live next door. We are new in the neighbourhood.”, she says. She has a calm, soothing voice and a dimpled smile. “I came in here when I heard you. There was a small fire in your garden. Don’t worry, the neighbours have taken care of it. None of your trees have been harmed. You passed out for a while. The doctor came to see you.”

I look outside. It is almost dawn. My head feels heavy. I feel drowsy. I catch a few faint words, “…. stress…. old age…. nothing serious.... you’ll be fine.” She speaks about finding something lying on the floor. She keeps something resembling a pair of long knitting needles on the bedside table. I feel my eyelids growing heavier with sleep.

Outside, a night jasmine drops off.

                                                   ---------------

The chilly wind of December grips me with its long, icy fingers. I shudder. Winter is ruthless. Yet I insist on opening the window. My garden will be enveloped in snow. And my snow-laden garden will sparkle in the soft evening sunshine. My nurse tries to reason with me.

“You are growing old, woman.”, she says, peering over her blue spectacles. She speaks gently, but I sense the firmness in her voice.

It is true that I have aged a lot in the last month. Maybe, Winter does that to old age. I find it harder to move with every passing day. My nurse tries to feed me from a bowl of hot soup. I turn my face away.

“But how will I hear the flute, if you keep the window shut?”, I hear myself say, in a voice choked with tears. “It has been such a long time. I haven’t heard him play the flute since last September. Will he not come to see me?” I feel a warm tear trickling down my cheek.

"Will I never see him again?"

“You will, someday.", a calm, soothing voice speaks.

"And he will play the flute again for you.”

She gives me a long, warm hug. She smells like the night jasmine.

“Open the window”, I mumble feebly.

“Please”

                                                    --------------

Spring feels different this year.

My window is open. And I see my garden filled with colours. Flowers have bloomed in every corner. The sunshine is brilliant. The sky seems to be a large canvass of an Artist, painted with a vibrant shade of crimson and pink and gold, framed into the little window, on the faded walls of my grey room. Outside a warm breeze blows over my garden.

I can’t breathe.

The warm air of March, a silent spectator of my sufferings, blows past with a cold indifference. I gasp for air. Beads of sweat on my brow trickle down my cheek like tears. I struggle harder. My room grows dimmer, the world grows darker. I see a pair of eyes. I have seen those eyes before somewhere. Darkness engulfs me. Am I dreaming? Someone is walking away from me, leaving me alone in the dark. Fear stifles me harder than the darkness. Spring has left. I hear footsteps and voices getting fainter. Or are they coming closer, towards me?

And then, the darkness closes in.

                                                     ---------------

They say April is over. And Summer’s glare has seared through May.

I wouldn’t have believed them had it not been for my garden. I know how my trees look in May. They dazzle in the burning heat.

Although my little world looks different with an oxygen mask over my face and emergency cylinders all over my room, my garden looks like it does every May.

Summer has its own beauty.

Summer can be unbearable at times. Summer hurts. But, so does Truth. And I have learnt from my trees, that Summer can set you free. There is something pure and liberating about the scorching Truth of Summer. Summer doesn’t heal you to make you who you are. Instead, the blistering rays of Truth burn you down, stripping you naked of who you are not. My trees teach me that Summer doesn’t complete your incompleteness and make you perfect. Instead, it helps you find beauty and bliss in the imperfection of your existence.

A sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my head. My head feels blank. A burning sensation travels down my back, my hands and my feet.

And then there is numbness and darkness.

                                                 -----------------

I wake up to the sound of the rains. Monsoon is here.

I find myself in a room with an open window. The rain-soaked trees stand quietly in the garden outside, barely moving. I find a silent companion in them, may be, because Life has been the same to us. The trees are mute and still, and so am I.

I hear footsteps outside my room. I hear unfamiliar voices.

“Seizures are common in the last stages of dementia.”, a man's voice says.

“But doctor, this is the third time she has had a seizure this month.”, I hear a girl say.

I hear snippets of their conversation, indistinct words blend in with the sound of the rains, creating a confused array of thoughts and pictures in my head.

“…….. incurable... you knew all along…. it's a..... Alzheimer's … spreads slowly…. hallucinations.... long time.... doesn’t have much time left… a month or two at the most……. good care… be strong.”

A girl walks in. She wears a high ponytail and a pair of blue spectacles. Her dark brown eyes meet mine. I see tears in them.

Her smell seems vaguely familiar.

                                                   ----------------

I see an unfamiliar tear-streaked face.

I hear a bird singing, somewhere far away. Somebody sits close to me and holds my hands. A girl’s voice whispers gently into my ears, “It’s September again. Do you hear him? Do you hear him playing the flute?”

I breathe heavily.

She gives me a framed photograph.

“This is the last picture we clicked together.”, she says.

I look at the photograph. I see three people sitting in a garden. There is an old lady, with flowing white hair. She reminds me of myself. In the middle, sits a young girl with dark brown eyes, and a dimpled smile. She resembles the girl holding my hands, although she is not wearing her blue spectacles in the picture. And next to her, sits an old man. His eyes are as dark as the girl’s. On the frame, a date is written.

September, 2014.

“Seven years have passed, Mama. That was his last September.”, the girl says.

“Papa loved his garden and his trees. He loved the night jasmine tree in that corner of the garden and he loved to sit in its shades and play the flute every morning. But he loved you more. And I love you too, Mama.”

After a long pause she says, “You will see him soon.”

“And he will play the flute again for you.”

I see the girl weeping. I look outside the open window.

A bird is flying, soaring higher and higher, blending in with the winds and the sunshine, losing itself in the vast emptiness of the sky.

And somewhere, I hear a flute.

                                                -----------------