The evanescent sound of the siren, the blue flashing of the beacons still haunts me out whenever she comes in my sleep followed by the hustling of hospital stretchers, flanging of the ICU door and the increasing heartbeat. All unorganized, random. Then a soft touch, all gloomy, misty and then the sweet known call “Bibhu ! My darling”. And then suddenly a white sheet of cloth spun around her pale body moving in darkness, still staring at me with her gentle pale smiling face. So still ,so lifeless. All of a sudden I jolted up from my bed. The bed seemed to be flooded by the dazzling moonlight. I felt drops of perspiration on my forehead and face. I looked to my table clock. Its tiny hands showed 3:15 AM. I murmered.
“She loves me more. So she came again.”
Every year during the summer vacation my heart used to thrift to visit my grandmother’s house in Mussoorie. I counted the days and buzzed in the ears of Papa all day long to visit the place. Tickets were booked in Mussoorie Express and we departed to the dreamy land of hills. This was our yearly routine till the last year.
On reaching to Dehra, I found driver chacha with his huge bald head and neatly cut moustache waiting in front of the station gate leaning over the car and going through The Rojkar Samachar. He soon looked down to his watch and then to the gate and welcomed us with beetle stained smile. The mighty blue ambassador then traveled through the long spiral road towards the green leafy horizon.
The car rolled through the iron gate crushing the sandstone pebbles, honking and grandma came out strolling down the grassy stairs stepping over the fallen mango leaves. I produced my neck through the car window and found the ripe mangoes hanging in groups playing with sun rays. Grandma exclaimed in joy:
“Bibhu my boy !! All mangos are kept for you.”
I jolted out from the car and ran to her arms and making her to round. She held my cheeks between her palms and looked straight into towards my eyes. I could sense her eye lashes slowing getting moist. I smiled and she did the same in return. Then she took my pinkie finger and bite it a little. It is a tradition generally carried away by Indian grandmas and moms to put away the evil from the periphery of their loved ones. You can call it superstition but believe me, it is the sweetest form of love and bond ever.
Grandma and I used to chat all day long. In the afternoon she used to prepare Kaccha mango pickles brushed with lemon and green chili and I enjoyed it till she snatched the jar from my hands. At night massaged my head and engaged my dreams with her self-made tales of ghosts, riots, forest fires and so on…
But last year the situation was not the same. It was not at all like the previous year’s. I minutely remember the morning when mom jolted me from my sleep. I could see her painful eyes and disheveled hair. I had never seen her like that before. I heard papa speaking to someone in a low tone. I was curious to know. My heart seemed to make his way out. No one was prepared to tell me about the incidence. I ran to papa but he stopped me.
I heard grandma passed away last night in St. Mary Hospital. She was suffering from fever from the last four days and then last night she was breathing heavily. So chacha ji admitted her to the town hospital. Grandma promised him not to call us in the middle of night.
Just a week later of her demise, I got a mail from Chacha ji. I opened the brown envelope. I found a letter written by chachaji followed by another letter covered in a plastic. Chacha ji wrote that he had sent a page of diary which he got from the folded palm of Grandma. Doctors gave it to him before covering her corpse.
I left Chacha ji’s letter after that and opened the folded diary page…
Grandma wrote in shaking hands:
“28.12.2020
St. Mary Hospital,
Mussoorie
3:15 AM
Bibhu ! My Darling,
Sorry for not been able to keep your promise my son. I think…”
There was nothing written after that except a deep scratch of ink. All of a sudden an eerie thought struck my mind.
“3:15 AM !!” ,a jolt of thrill ran down my spine and only a soft murmur came out of me, “She loved me more, so she came.”
Author Bio:
Srijit Raha was born in Kolkata, India and grew up in Berhampore. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature from University of Calcutta. He enjoys expressing himself through written words and loves reading and writing intriguing poems, short stories and novels of various genres. Raha’s works had been previously published in many journals and magazines.
