Amber

(16) Diary

I never understood why people criticised the government so much. The sufferers got home around the same area within a week with relief funds, and all the furniture was replaced. I insisted on keeping Grandma's almirah. Keeping things as a memory of someone, that remind you of their smell, and their entire existence is not wrong.

Jared had also been very kind to me. He could tolerate me when I was at my worst. He visited me every day after school, telling me what all happened in the day. Though now, I truly miss school.

Not that I didn't want to go to school, though; but taking a break and spending time at the hill made life so much more beautiful. I often fell into deep conversations with Ivy and Krishna about the true meaning of life, that usually ended with Krishna doing something funny and making us laugh our hearts out. 

Now I'm just numb. I let emotions flow through, accepting whatever life has in for me. I do cry at 2 am in the night, remembering Grandma and the terrible day I lost her. I'm very fine in the day. It is only after dusk that my fears start getting the better of me. Today, I will muster up the courage to read Grandma's letters too.

I and my heart have become good friends. It refuses to shut up and I let it speak for hours on end. But sometimes, when I'm in trouble, my heart convinces me that it's okay to let go. It's necessary to move on because nothing is permanent in the universe. And then, I hear the voice of Krishna telling me about the massive ball of energy in her forever-hyped-up voice. Ivy never fails to make her way into my heart and reminding me that I don't need to force myself into emotional recovery. It is a gradual process. Besides, she said that I had been doing well.

I reached my place with the diary still clutched to my chest. I wondered why I took it every day to the hill in the hope of reading it with Krishna when I wanted to read it alone. 

I switched on the lamp on my study table and placed the thick brown diary on the table. My hands didn't tremble, nor was my breathing ragged. I didn't feel nauseous or dizzy either. I opened the diary from the middle. It was a worn-out page describing how one day I looked worried when I came in the morning from a sleepover at one of my friends.

Grandma knew. She just chose not to disturb me. 

I went back to the first page. The entry was dated 5 years back.

'I write in a calmer frame of mind today than I would have done a few months earlier. Frequent visits to the church and conversations with the Priest have given me the strength to bear the crucial reality. She's gone, oh dear! The cruel disease was eating her up, and she came into its captivity before we could take notice.'

I turned the page.

'They say writing is the only escape at the hour you are broken, but that is not true at all. If writing were to heal all wounds and destroy all fears, love, respect and humanity would all be in vain. Despite my own children being caught in the shackles of the horrific disease, its sole cause being the destruction of nature by humans, humanity is alive. Often, I just see a flicker of humanity amongst people. That gives me strength.'

'I shall raise my Amber the way her parents wanted her to be. I shall fulfil her dreams and shall tell her one day, that we shifted to the hill because it was her parents' last wish. That her parents died of the pollution in the city and how much her mother wished that Amber be raised in this quiet haven.'

Some pages had impressions of teardrops that made it almost impossible to read them.

'Dearest daughter, I know you have ceased to exist, but it is my poor heart, that keeps telling me that you are still around me. The wind blowing, the river water lapping, the rain pouring; all of it reminds me of you, dearest.'

'I have brought Amber to the hill but I wonder if she likes it here. Oh, how I wish to tell her about you both!  I shall give this to her when I die. I don't want to die leaving her questions unanswered. My children would have wanted the same.'

Grandma missed my parents more than I did. She had written endless letters to my dead parents. She had written about me. If she'd written about anything more than her children, it was about the environment.

'Industrialists are continuing to exploit the hill's resources. They're cutting holes to make roads through the hill. Tree-felling is happening incessantly. Factories are dumping their wastes into the river every day. The place is losing its marvel. I fear a landslide might happen. I shall tell Amber about her home in the city. No more will I hide things from her. Uh Oh! I hear her dancing in the next room. Let me read her a poem I wrote for her mother. She truly has started resembling her.'

That was her last entry.

A/N:- 

What do you think Amber will do next? Did you expect her parents to die that way?