A dark room always invoke an inexplicable state of feeling that something is going to happen. I might call it curiosity. But is it that? The objects in the dark room are invisible. A death lurking in that darkness is certainly invisible. Invisibility gives invincibility. Death is anyway invisible even during the day. Death would be invisible for years. The moment it shows its face, it no longer evokes fear. Fear becomes fact.
I met a cheerful girl nearly two decades ago. She came to the bus-stand to receive me in the city of Ananda. Before my friend introduced me to her, she started talking about many things that included physics, food, books, and films. During the next five days, we, three of us, had many occasions to discuss whatever we like. That was a luxury. I cannot do that now. People are so busy in their lives, it is difficult for them to listen to something outside their interests. Time just flew then without leaving any scar but making every moment magical. When I had to return back, it was quite tough for me to let go of those moments. Those are magical moments. They could fly away without actually leaving you.
I got a letter from that cheerful and innocent girl after a few days. I replied immediately. I got her reply after a couple of days. Those days were days of post-cards. I think I still have some of those post-cards she had then written, somewhere in my dark room. As it always happens, our correspondence became less frequent. Almost stopped after six months.
I met her again few years back. Thanks to my friend (yes, the same friend who came before) who tried hard to find me again - yes, we too had lost the thread. How we got lost and found each other in contact again is a story in itself which I have to record it sometime. Loss never stays. Loss never stays forever. I met him again in the city of Malgudi. When I went to meet him, I met her there again. The same cheerful, innocent, and divine face after all those storms life bestowed on her. Being cheerful is not necessarily being in cheerfulness. She welcomed me with her kids. I met her mother, father, and met everyone I had met two decades ago. Magical moments again.
Life had to go on. It goes on. When I went to my friend's house, in the city of Ice House, a few months after those Malgudi days, I spoke to her over the phone. She was then in United States. The voice sounded a bit tired but the cheer in the spirits was there.
Death is invisible. Invisibility invokes invincibility. It struck her from behind. She had back-ache. It went into her blood. The cruel hands of death silently reached the source. They created beautiful patterns at micro-levels without bothering about its brutal effects at macro-levels. She is no more. Our hearts blame the higher powers. Our hearts are now full of doubts befriended by questions that have no answers.
When death makes itself visible, it becomes more invincible than before. Our minds and hearts are left alone to search for something that gives meaning for this seemingly meaningless life that flows forever and more.
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