OS Collection- Grief: My Sciamachy

MERI SAZAA:

"Janaab", Faizi pounded on the door, the academy in mourning silence around him. "Karan!"

"Faizi, mera baat karne ka bilkul mood nahi hai", he snapped back. "Chala jaa."

Karan stared at the picture, silent tears tracing down his face. He wiped them angrily, fed up of the seemingly endless tears.

'Karan, yeh tere bhai Param ki request nahi hai.'

'Kuch bhi ho jaaye, tu waapas nahi aayega, Karan.'

'Nahi, nahi, nahi! Yeh nahi ho sakta! Karan, tu... tu toh tha uske saath. Param ko kuch nahi hua, na? Tu jhooth bol raha hai, na? Mazaak hai, na, yeh? Bol, na, Karan!'

He snarled in frustration, hitting the desk harshly.

'Bhaiya! Main aapse better solider banooga! Dekh lena.'
'Shoes ke laces toh baandna seekh le pehle, gadhe.'
He looked at his untied laces, before looking up at his older brother, who was combing his hair, both in school uniform. He lifted his legs, staring at him hopefully. 'Ek aur baar bataana, kaise baandhte hain.'
He sighed, shaking his head. He knelt down, patiently teaching him how to tie his shoes, for the hundredth time.

Sobs racked his body and he slid to the ground, his chest tightening uncomfortably. A scream bubbled in his throat, and he pulled at his hair. It hurt. It hurt so much!

"Bhaiya", he sobbed. He stared at the picture of the two of them, vision blurring from the tears. "Bhaiya, I am sorry. Main aapko bacha nahi paaya. Aap better soldier ho, please waapas aa jao. I promise, main aapki har baat maanooga. I promise. Please waapas aa jao. Main aapke bina nahi reh sakta."

A knock sounded on the door. "Karan", Faizi called.

"Jaa, na, Faizi!" He screamed, clutching the nearest thing which happened to be a paperweight, throwing it across the room at the door. It clanked harshly, a dent appearing on the frame, before it fell to the ground, shattering into pieces.

He tilted his head back, resting it on the wall, as sobs racked his body. His chest tightened uncomfortably, a painful lump in his throat, and he screamed. The pain didn't ease. He screamed again, screaming till he couldn't hear his own voice, silent sobs taking over them.

'Tum log andar kaise phase?' Colonel Batra asked.
'They're drunk', a doctor declared, finishing checking over them.
'Yeh nashe mein the, galti se border cross liya', one's father said. Karan's fists clenched. 'Inko punishment mil gayi hai. Le dekar baat khatam karte hain?'
His temper broke, and he crossed the room, clutching his collar and slamming him into a wall. 'Inki wajah se mera bhai shaheed ho gaya hai.'
'We're sorry, but tum logon ke liye toh yeh honor ki baat hai, na?' One of them asked. 'Humne honor dilaa diya tumhe.' He chuckled.
Karan wrapped his hand around his throat, snarling as his fists found him over and over again. Arms pulled him back, and he screamed in his face, fighting against them. 'Tumhaari wajah se mera bhai mar gaya, and tumhe farak hi nahi padta', he screamed.
'Karan! Karan!' A voice screamed.
'Shergill', Colonel Batra said, standing in front of them. 'Main samajhta hoon tumhaari feelings, par this is not the solution.'
'Iss baat ka koi solution hai hi nahi!' He screamed. 'My brother's dead, aur sab inki galti hai. You selfish brats!'

Karan's jaw clenched. "Tum logon ki wajah se mere bhaiya shaheed ho gaye. Zindagi mein sab kuch itni asaani se mila hai ki kisi ki jaan tak ki parwaah nahi. Ameerzaade.'

The door burst open, and his jaw clenched in irritation as he saw Faizi.

"Faizi, yaar, samajh nahi aata tujhe", he said, his voice hoarse from all the screaming. "Akela chodh de mujhe!"

"Haath dekho tum apna", he snapped back. He lifted it, and Karan stared at the blood dripping down his palm. Blood was on the floor around him, and it was then, he realized he had been hitting it in anger.

He deserved it. He couldn't save his brother. He deserved it. He deserved it!

"Deserve karta hoon main yeh", he said, ripping his hand away from his grip. His throat burned with exertion, stinging and he welcomed the pain. "Bhaiya ko main nahi bacha paaya."

"Tumhaari galti nahi hai, Karan", Faizi said. "Tumhaari koi galti nahi hai. Bina galti ke khud ko sazaa mat do."

"Sazaa toh mil chuki hai. Bhaiya... Faizi, wo mujhe hamesha ke liye chhod kar chale gaye", he sobbed, throwing himself in his arms, and his best friend wrapped his arms around him, rubbing his back. "Wo hamesha ke liye chale gaye, Faizi. Bhaiya chale gaye. Wo mujhe chhodkar chale gaye."

He was dead.

He was gone. Forever.

And he had to live the rest of his life without him.

DEAR BHAIYA:

Karan pulled back the chair, tilting his head back, as he heaved a deep sigh. He opened his drawer, pulling the photo frame out. It was of 12 years back. Karan had an arm around Param, as the two smiled at the camera, identical mischief and cheerfulness glinting in their eyes.

A deep pain stirred in his chest, staring at his martyred brother. He kept the photo down, picking a black pen up, and flipping to a blank page in a notepad.

Dear Bhaiya,
10 saal ho gaye uss mission ke din se. Aapki kami abhi bhi khalti hai mujhe. Jab ghar aata hoon, aur aap mujhe greet karne ke liye nahi hote, haal poochne ke liye call nahi karte, successful mission ke baad badhaai dene ke liye gale nahi lagaate, bahut khalti hai yeh kami.

Bhabhi theek hain, aur Baby bhi. Badhi ho gayi hai ab wo. Bilkul aap jaisi hai wo. Strong aur ziddi. Kabhi kabhi kuch aisa keh deti hai ki lagta hai Baby nahi, aap hi ho wahan. Aap ko bacha nahi paaya tha, par use kuch hone nahi doonga.

Faizi theek hai. Uski shaadi ho gayi hai, Koel se. Agar aap hote, toh Koel ko pasand zaroor karte. Brave, strong, independent. Bhabhi ki tarah hai wo thodi thodi. Sherni. Haath laga kar dikha de koi un logon ko jise wo apna samajhti hai, Faizi toh kya, ek baar ke liye main aur Sanju bhi darr jaate hain. Wo kehte hain, na, ki agar Sherni ki bacche ho uske saamne chedh do, toh uske gusse se, Sher bhi darr jaata hai? Us par poora fit hota hai.

Sanju bilkul theek hai. Uski bhi shaadi ho gayi hai, Siddharth se. Sid se. Un se zyaada 'opposites' toh shayad hi koi ho sakta hai. Par Siddharth uske liye achha hai. Use izzat deta hai, uske sapnon ki kadar karta hai, har ek decision aur step mein uska saath deta hai. Sab ko 'Bro' bulaata hai wo. Bhagwaan tak ko bhi. Aap dono ki kisi aur cheez mein bane na bane, par mera mazaak udhaane mein zaroor banti.

Aur... ab baat meri. Meri bhi shaadi ho gayi hai. I know, ajeeb hai kyunki main hamehsa kehta tha ki kabhi nahi karoonga shaadi. Par jisse hui hai, na, uske saath shaadi naa karna, imagine nahi kar sakta ab main. Monami naam hai uska. Monami Mahajan. Well, ab Monami Shergill hai. Doctor hai, commando bhi hai. Multi-talented.

Kaash aap mil paate usse, Bhaiya. Main jaanta hoon aapko wo bahut zyaada pasand aati. And I know wo aapko bahut pasand karti. Kaash bas ek baar, aap usse mil paate. Ek saath, aap dono apne pedh-paudhon ki pasand ki baatein karte. Mujhe lagta tha aap se zyaada koi pedh-paudhon ko pyaar nahi kar sakta, par Monami se milne ke baad pata chala ki koi pedhon ko hug karne jitna paagal bhi ho sakta hai.

Jab sad hoti hai, toh jaakar pedh ko hug kar leti hai. Main hoon, toh pedh ko hug karne ki kya zaroorat?

Aapke jaane ke baad, laga nahi tha ki kabhi khush ho paonga main dobara. Par jab uske saath hota hoon, toh aapko khone ka dard khatam toh nahi hota, par us dard ke saath jeene ki strength mil jaati hai, aisa lagta hai ki jitna bhi dard hai wo sab sehen karne ka ek purpose hai. Uske saath bitaaya hua har pal wo purpose hai.

Sid believe karta hai ki aap heaven mein ho, aur hamesha dekh rahe ho. Kehta hai ki agar yeh sach nahi bhi hai, toh bhi maane se achha lagta hai, toh maan lo. Achha toh lagta hai yeh believe karna ki aap abhi bhi mere saath ho, dekh rahe ho. Kaash yeh believe nahi karna padta, Bhaiya. Kaash aap sach mein saath mein hote.

Kaash aap tab hote jab pehli baar mujhe Monami se pyaar hone ka ehsaas hua tha. Kaash aap tab hote jab use shaadi ke liye propose kiya tha. Kaash aap tab hote, jab humaari shaadi ho rahi thi. Har ek pal mein hote jo main kabhi nahi bhool sakta, aur yeh bhi nahi bhool sakta ki aap nahi the un palon mein.

Kaash pyaar hone ke liye aap mujhe tease karte, jaise Bhabhi ke liye maine aapko kara tha. Kaash shaadi ki raat, aap mere saath baithkar poori raat baat karte, jaise aapki shaadi ki raat kari thi. Mujhe bhi mauka chahiye jealous hone ka jab aap Monami ke saath time spend karte, jaise aap hote the jab main Bhabhi ke saath karta tha.

Kaash yeh sab kuch aapke saath kar paata. Kaash aapko bacha paata main, Bhaiya.

Kaash...

Aapka bhai,

Karan.

He let the pen fall from between his fingers, watching disinterestedly as it rolled down to the notepad, onto the desk, before finally stopping. He switched the lamp off. He closed his eyes, crossing his arms.

Memories flashed before his eyes. Bhaiya and him playing in the mud when they were kids, the two playfully wrestling on the bed when they were teenagers. Fighting, making up, laughing together. The scenes rushed past. It stopped, slowing down to the moments where he had seen him getting shot, as he fell to the ground, and then finally stopped. He was lying dead.

A hand trailed down his shoulder, reaching over him and switching the lamp on again. He didn't need to open his eyes to know who it was.

Monami wrapped her arms around him, hugging him. He didn't need to tell her what he was thinking about. She knew. She always did.

Her lips pressed an affectionate and comforting kiss to his cheek, and he finally opened his eyes, looking up at her. Seeing her face was a comfort, and he smiled a little.

"Bahar sab hain", his wife whispered. "Param Bhaiya ko yaad kar rahe hain. Unki memories, unki habits, sab kuch. Tum aaoge?"

He took a deep breath, before nodding. Her lips stretched into a wider smile, and she stepped back.

'Happy birthday, Bhaiya. Aapki birthday party aapke bina thodi sooni hai...'

ALONE:

Monami drew the curtains back, light filtering in the room. It brightened up her room, and she took a step back, inspecting her lit things. They glinted, and her eyebrows furrowed together.

Why didn't they glint as bright as before? Was it because she wasn't there to smile at them, smile at her? Was it because the happiness of her laugh wasn't echoing in the halls of their house? Did the house miss her too? Did it mourn her too?

Her eyes traced over the lit up things, pausing at the photo frame. Her legs moved. She picked it up, the material like lead in her hands. Of course, it was heavy. It contained the weight of her memories.

She ran her fingers over the glass. She couldn't touch the picture. Just like she couldn't touch her mother ever again. Just like her mother couldn't touch her again. This was all there was now.

Photos. Memories. Things that were special because she had touched them, she had loved them.

Her vision blurred. Her eyes stung. A lump pained her throat. She was crying. She brushed the tears away, moving to the mirror.

She stared at the mirror. Did she look like her? Her nose? Her eyes? Was she her mother's daughter, or was she too much like her father? She wanted to be like her mother. Was she?

She glanced down at her vanity. She picked up a lipstick, opening it and staring at it.

'Monami, bacche, wo drawing ke liye nahi hai', she scolded lightly, picking a 6 year old her up, the lipstick falling from her hands. She reached down, and her mother tickled her, making her giggle. 'Aapke paas crayons hain, na? Go, use them.'
'Mumma, yeh aap ke liye', she said, picking the drawing when she had put her down.
'I love you, Mumma', she read out aloud. She smiled, leaning down and kissing her forehead. 'I love you too, baccha.'

She stared at the mirror, her lips painted red. She closed it, keeping it down. She sat down on the chair, opening the drawer. She paused as a bracelet stared up at her.

'Close your eyes', her mother whispered. A 13 year old Monami excitedly slid them shut. Her hand was lifted, and something cool was set on it. She opened her eyes, staring at the beautiful bracelet. Her eyes widened and she stared at it.
'Wow', she said. She turned it over. 'MERI JAAN' was engraved on a side.
'Happy birthday, baccha', she said, kissing her cheek.

She fastened the bracelet, turning it over and staring at the words again. She brought her wrist up, closer to her mouth, gently kissing it. She didn't kiss her mother's cheek back that time.

She opened the perfume, the sweet, fruity fragrance spreading in her room.

A 9 year old Monami took a deep breath, sniffing the perfume. 'Aap bahut achha smell kar rahe ho', she said, pulling back from the hug. 'Mujhe bhi wo perfume chahiye, Mumma.'
Her mother chuckled, ruffling her hair. She reached over, spraying some on her and she sniffed herself, before sighing happily. Her mother handed her the bottle.
'Ab yeh tumhaara.'
'Aur aap?'
She smiled, ruffling her hair again. 'Rakh lo.'

She sprayed it over herself, closing her eyes. Her hands rubbed her arms, and she hugged herself, pretending it was her mother that was hugging her.

Her arms were hugging her back, her head resting on her chest, and her mother's hand gently rubbed her back, the other on her head. Her heartbeat was steady under her ear, a comforting thumping.

She opened her eyes, staring at herself in the mirror.

There was no one else.

She took a deep breath, standing up. She picked up the wrapped box, walking over the door.

She stared at the doorknob. Smile, she told herself. It was awkward, at first, but a few seconds later, it didn't feel as weird anymore.

She wished she could say the same about the pain.

She pulled the door open, her shoes echoing lightly as she walked down the stairs.

The house was empty.

Where was her father? She frowned. She placed the box on the dinner table, a note catching her eye.

'Important conference hai. I'll be back in two days. -Dad.'

Did disappointment bubble in her chest? She couldn't quite tell past the constricting feeling in her chest. What was that? It wasn't quite as painful as grief, nor quite as heavy as disappointment. Loneliness. Was that it? Emptiness? Perhaps that described the feeling? She never knew a void could be that constricting.

She crumbled up the note, letting the paper roll down her hand to the dustbin. She opened the fridge, bending down, and pulling out the box. She set it down on the dining table, pulling the chair back and sitting down.

Her gaze lifted to the clock. It was 11:59. She watched the seconds tick by, opening it up, and staring at the cake inside when it had struck 12.

She lifted the knife, making a single cut. She closed the box again, standing up and pushing it inside the fridge again. It would taste bland anyway.

She sat down on the chair again, staring at the note.

'To my dearest baccha, Happy 20th Birthday.'

But it was in her handwriting. Of course it was. Martyred people can't write notes for birthday gifts.

She opened it, staring at the cup. 'My beautiful daughter' was printed in big, curly letters and she smiled at it, passing the cup from her left hand to her right. It was her mother giving it to her, she pretended.

She caressed it gently, before setting it down on the dinner table. She rested her chin on her elbow, staring at the words.

Her eyes slid close. She swallowed the lump in her throat but it persisted. It didn't disappear. Quite like her pain. She took a deep breath, a sigh escaping her.

A breeze ruffled her hair slightly, caressing her cheek, and her eyes snapped open. Mumma? Did she just kiss her cheek?

She straightened up, looking around. The hope drained away. She slumped, sighing.

No one was there.

She was alone.