Chronostasis

        People deal with loss in different ways: some submit to it under veils of silence, while others turn it into a crusade. The Joshi family had a loss. A loss so great that it changed the course of their lives forever. The clocks in the Joshi residence waited for life to return.

       As I sat in their living room, cross-legged, plate in front of me, Vimla ran inside to get me some more shrikhand. The sweetness of her manner had combined with the sourness of her loss. Her sweet sourness laid thickly over the kitchen—it turned turned the walls yellow and made the roof drip. "Tushar loved shrikhand", she told me as she served me some. The statement did not need an acknowledgement. It was a fact, like many other facts I knew about the boy whom I would never see. I felt Ramakant wince. Vimla continued to dish us pickle.

        Ramakant and I had become friends; he and I were bonded by loss: him, of his promising son, and me, of my life. I had recently moved back to the town since losing my company to a bad investment. I was soon a regular visitor at the Joshi residence—feeding on the delicious food and the sense of family.

        I was separated from my wife of twenty years—the only family I had. I knew the anatomy of loss.

        Tushar had been their sixteen year old son. He was no more. The police never found the dead body—but most people had accepted it. He had last been seen on the top of a cliff while on a trip with his closest friends. He had just vanished—flown away with the fog—never to be seen again.

        He was eulogised by one and all. I felt a slight pang for the loss of such great potential. But the thing about promising lives cut short, is that no one knows how it might have ended up. I knew from personal experience how it felt to have been promising.

***

        He woke up terrified in the middle of the night, afraid of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. He gazed at his wife - sleeping calmly, feet dangling from the bed. He wanted to shake her up and describe the horror of the dream that kept waking him up at nights - if only he could describe it to himself! He told himself that he was being silly. He remembered nothing but the fear. He put her leg back on the bed and closed his eyes to try and sleep again, but the disquiet in his mind kept him wide awake. He admired the innocent face of his wife. She always brought him comfort. She was his pocket of happiness. Her sight calmed him down. She was the empress of his dreams.

        He woke up late the next morning. He felt his warm skin stretch and sag under the pressure of his palm. The horror of the dream emerged into reality. He knew what was wrong. He had been playing with fire. He called in sick that day.

        Years went by without incident. His life was becoming to the promise. He had a loving wife and a wonderful life, but he was unhappy. Adoption became the subject of a lot of friction between the couple. She accused him of being insensitive. He accused her of being hormonal. The neighbourhood agreed with them.

        His boss’ secretary became his respite from the muddle at home. Romance blossomed via instant messages and urgent memos, on roof-tops and in coffee rooms. It became the latest scandal; the neighbourhood savoured the tension. He cheated on the one thing he loved, and he lost everything. His relation with this wife soured, and the empress left the kingdom.

        As he sat on the parking floor, devastated, he thought back to where it went wrong. The break-up. The parking garage. Asking Rohini to meet. The lonely morning. His wife leaving. A month back. The winter vacation. The first time he saw Rohini. The morning before that. An year back. His 15th wedding anniversary. He sat down and concentrated. He had never done such a big jump before.

        He recreated the moment in his mind, and suddenly he felt the universe collide into him and drown him in time. He gasped for air and flung his hands around, trying frantically to keep himself afloat, and then he felt the bed sheets, and grabbed them with all his might.

        He opened his eyes to see his wife’s innocent face besides him. He heaved a sigh of relief, and packed for  a short trip before she noticed the difference in his looks. He needed a good excuse, and then everything would be alright.

        But life repeated. He was older, childless, and alone. He forced himself into work, but the vitality was absent. Everything seemed useless. He had failed at life. There was nothing he looked forward to.

        He walked up to the orphanage one last time, to have a look at the empress of his dreams, who was sweetened by the years under the sun, living the dream of being a mother. He sat down under a huge banyan tree, and concentrated.

 ***

        As I sat on a park bench, admiring a tiny butterfly flap its wings under the exuberant sun, I felt my heart flutter in response.

        I had lived up my life—stretched my legs further than my blanket. I closed my eyes and focused on my life force. I wanted wash everything away. My parents would never feel the happiness of having me, or the anguish of losing me—as if I were a fleeting dream in a happy life.

        As I stood in the park, my hands outstretched and eyes closed, I felt as if I were being pulled inside my own self, as a dandelion in the wind and as someone who was one with the universe. I opened my eyes to a glorious life.

        I did not want to run away again. Life wasn’t perfect; it was convoluted. But I was satisfied.

         I walked up to the door of my former home. “Ramakant, I have to tell you something. I used to be your son once upon a time”.