Death.
Something I think of too often now. How it would be a hug, a long hug where it wouldn’t release me as long as I cling onto it. A lover’s caress. A lullaby my mother never had time to sing to me. A pat in the head, my father never gave. A comfortable home- where you don’t expect the shoe to drop, where you don’t have to think twice before deciding what to wear, where you can dance and sing without a thought, where love comes to you naturally- never shoved down your throat. Death stopped being scary a long time ago. Now it’s a destination I look forward to. With longing. With pleading doe eyes. With everything I have. With desperation, I’ve never known.
Death is a prayer- a hymn I offer to God everyday- hoping one day he will finally listen. It is an aftermath. It is the present. It is peaceful. It is everything life could never be- It is calm. It is an onslaught of solemnity. For my heart still believes, in death there would be sanctity. In death there would be no slut shaming. In death I wouldn’t be average- just another soul in god’s embrace or better in the lap of the devil. In death I wouldn’t have to fight, I’d just freefall. Into nothing. Because nothing has been everything for a while now.
In death there would be regret, there would be flowers, there would be guilt, there would be gratitude. What there would never be- is resent, unabashed hatred, loathing that crawls at skin and disgust that brings tears. And if it would still be- wouldn’t I already be dead to pay heed to that? Wouldn’t that be enough?
My prayers were finally answered.
For death has arrived. My knight in shining armor. The protector I’ve seeked in god. Who knew, this was God’s plan? And I am finally happy. The lover I’d yearned for is here, right before me. My eyes shimmy in tears as I breathe, breathe life in death. I soak in what I have always known- life was never worth living, now that I am finally holding hands with him. He looks into my eyes and I feel seen. I see pity. So much of it. I should loathe it, I have loathed it, but somehow the concern drapes the pupils of pity. He cares. I think he cares. He takes his hands and cups my face in his palms. The pad of his thumbs wiping away the tears, I didn’t realise had slipped. It is caress. All this love I’ve held in a closed box, is now overflowing. I am melting at the mere touch. Hating men all my life, only to melt at concern when traded with life. He doesn’t speak. Just wraps his arms around me and I’m heaving. Sobbing. Crying. Big, ugly tears.
He smells like home. Like all those men who shamed me. But it doesn’t stink; it is an apology wrapped in warmth. I think he listens to me. Someone who had been a silent witness, every time I thought nobody cared. Someone who kept me alive even if he wanted me close- because he wanted me to live. Someone who loved me, when I didn’t love myself. I think he sees my pain. I don’t know how long he holds me. Until I am exhausted. So much so that his arms are the only things holding me. He pulls me back and holds my hands, and we walk. We walk side by side.
He taps my shoulder, and poof, I’m a puddle, suddenly getting out of the muddle of thoughts. One of his hands rests across my hip as the other one links my fingers with his. Soon we’re dancing a waltz, I know no steps off. I am pretty sure I stepped on his foot more than once. But he doesn’t make a face. Can you believe that? He let it go, he didn’t scold me, and I didn’t flinch. We dance and dance until my feet give out.
I close my eyes, and I see myself. The little girl humming as grandma combs her fingers through my hair. I see the little girl sitting across from grandpa, listening to his tales. The little girl who rushed to the terrace to retrieve the pickles that had long gotten soaked in the warmth of the sun. The little girl who eagerly roaa ms off from room to room, seeing uncle and aunt arriving from the balcony. The little girl who loves walking bare feet on the mud as the wind silently fans her face. The little girl who dares to dream, to hope, to create something out of nothing. A reverent soliloquy that plays in loop.
We have now shifted. My face is in the crook of his neck, and I’m holding him so tight. Afraid he will abandon me like everyone else. Afraid he will scold me if I cry again. Afraid this moment will disappear if I am not careful. My legs don’t work anymore, but we still dance. We dance in the silence of all the forgotten versions of me. Versions that the world and I collectively decided not to remember.
In the tune of unheard prayers. No one sees us. They never did. But I keep swaying—because it’s the only way I’ve ever been held.
When I finally open my eyes, he is looking at me with an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint. I rest my head against his chest. My breath slows. His heartbeat doesn’t exist, and yet, it’s the only rhythm I hear. There’s no music now. Just quiet. The kind I begged for all my life. And I don’t wake up. I don’t want to.
I don’t look back. There was never anything worth looking back at. In death, there is him, and in him, there is peace- just as I had predicted. Maybe the apology god wanted to send me was him. He is perhaps the eulogy god wrote for me, for all the times he should’ve been there with me. And just maybe I am loved even if it is in death- in the quiet echo of a waltz, the world will never know about.
(Can’t believe it’s been like two years since this entry. Can’t believe I picked myself up after this. Sometimes I wish I could write like this again, but then I don’t know if I can ever survive it all over again.)
Until the next one,
Love xoxo.
What a masterpiece. My, my.
I feel connected because I imagine a lover exactly like this: gentle , kind and forgiving. Someone who'd never raise his voice and never scold me. Someone who'd offer me a glass of water sometimes for no reason. Someome who would never ever resemble my dad, someone who'd not butcher my flesh.
I just never imagined him as death, i gave him a name "সপ্তর্ষি" , resembling a constellation, since my name comes from stars as well. I know no one by that name, and I don't care about anyone even if they have that name. I never thought that I'll meet him at death, and thank god... Perhaps that saved me from dying.
I'm a bitter human. I am pessimistic, realistic rather. I have a deep, deep hate for men and society, I don't have a plan to date or to marry or to hope some man "saves" me. But I think of my imaginary lover, and I hug my pillow and cry to him exactly like this.
Sitting at the psychiatrist's office , he told me that "সপ্তর্ষি" and the maladaptive daydreaming about him is a coping mechanism I used to soothe myself from my PTSD. And it was effective. It was 2 years back, when I was in class 9 and I stopped talking. "You're much older for your age" he said.
Now , i have had my last extreme PTSD episodes last month in early -mid May. It comes and goes. But I'm improving significantly, and steadily. I'm taking actions.
Thanks for publishing this peice didi, it truly resonated with me. You write very , very beautifully.🩷
Anwesha first of all why did you put this song I'll go fru