Love, Death, and the Space in Between

The noise ceased.

I could hear no buses grunting on the roads, no clattering of the machines. No clink and clunk. Just a hoarse roar of the undercurrents. Water was slipping through my hands like sand. Straws and twigs and empty bottles, as lifeless as I was, were whirlpooling . A boatman rowed in the distance and the river murmured. Not a bad sound at all, at least not a bad background score for the last moments of my life. I was sinking to the bed. Rather, I tried to drown myself. My lungs swelled. Water is heavier than air, a thought flew by the axis of my sentience. It was time. For redemption. For letting go, of everything and everyone, finally! I was free. I could have stayed free longer had the boatman with the musical ore not fished out my body. This wasn't the first time I was failing at something in life.

I woke up on the musty wooden floor of the boat. The boatman was old and timid. His skin seasoned but his clothes fresh and crispy clean. He squinted, his eyes making no movements. “Were you swimming in these baggy pants, girl? ”

He took off his clogs. Put them in a little hatch at the rear end of the boat. I was lying on the floor, wet and exhausted. The water of the river hit against the frame of the boat. The sound of the waves and the noise of the motor swooned in my ears.

“I was trying to die…..at a very wrong time,” I murmured, raising and shaking my arms to see if they’ were still working. This time, just like other times, I accepted life as it came. It was a failed suicide attempt but I had no strength to deal with failures anymore. What has life done to me! I thought.

The water in my lungs made me cough endlessly clogging my nose and throat. The sunlight filtered through the trees and covered me in a warm lively feeling. I wanted to take a nap without stressing upon what had happened. The boatman started humming an old song from 50s:

“Mr Sandman, someone to hold would be so peachy before we're too old

So please turn on your magic beam, Mr Sandman, bring us, please, please, please

Mr Sandman, bring us a dream.”

In the hypnagogic state I realized I might never find the courage to attempt a suicide again. I was slipping to sleep, tenderly. Everything was going to be alright. I thought. This is the sign.

……………………………...

I woke up to the boatman smoking fishes on fire. I wasn't on the boat though. It was a wooden deck, beaming with wooden paneling on its front and sides, I was lying on a large spacious chair with one blanket snuggled around me and another under my feet.

“St. Croix’s best trout. They sell stale ones in the market. The river rears fresh.” He turned his face to me. “The old man has nerves of steel.” His hearty laugh rang through the woods and the water. “So, tell me young lady, what made you jump into the sacred river. Do you wish to be fish food?”

I was startled. Did he hear me mutter in the boat? I sat straight and cleared my throat. “I… I was… just…I..practising swimming,” I stuttered.

“You must be a soldier, trained to swim in baggy pants.” He laughed again, shaking his head in amusement, brushing the fish with butter.

“Okay okay! I wasn't swimming. I was tired. Weighed down. By living.”

“Ah! Days of yore. Tell this old man the story? I might have some knowledge of the time.”

“You’ll judge me and send me to an asylum,” I said.

“Did you run away from an asylum?”

“No. I lived in a small cottage, right beside the Lakeland Trail.”

“Good! You can leave for your cottage after you finish telling me the story.” He sat on the chair opposite to me. He was a huge old man with craters under his eyes, albeit, not scary at all. In fact he reminded me of John, the gardener who bought me candies every now and then when I was a kid. But I had no strength left to speak. I was probably falling sick. He made some lemongrass soup to help.

“Resume the story, shall you?” He had a coarse voice. The voice that effortlessly stresses upon words in a way that even a question sounds like a verse stolen from a poem. The voice that would cause one to remember Dylan Thomas, a roistering, drunken and doomed voice.

His company was uncoiling.

“I spend the growing years of my life playing with paints. At times, we had no food to eat, no new clothes to wear but as far I can recall, we had never been out of paints. My dad had his paintings sold at a local art shop. He earned enough to buy the bread and milk but never enough for money to last more than a day. On a no sales day, hunger was an uninvited guest.”

“ You don’t look poor though. Those clothes can clock you a fortune,” he grinned.

“I moved to Wisconsin when I was 13. Ran away from home.”

“And…?”

“It was the only way out of the fataI routine. I wanted to be a painter too. I worshipped art. After 12 years of struggle and success in Wisconsin, I tried to settle down. Got a job at an art school, sent some money home too. Everything was falling at its place. Then one day….I….I..met....Dan… Dan Wani.” I stopped. I shouldn't have brought up his name again. His name, pangs and cold sweat, a synonymous feelings!

“Heartbreak, I see! What did Dan do?”

“Nothing! I made a home inside him. It was my fault.” I pulled the blanket up over my shoulders, pretending to be sleepy. I wanted to stop thinking about him. He reminded me of everything that led me to the river that afternoon.

“Hence the heartbreak. A person can not be a home, woman. Did he find a quote home endquote in you too?” He was comfortably seated, food in his plate, he wouldn't stop before I finish the story.

“I don’t know. I believe he did, for a while. He was an inscrutable man, wore no expression on his face,” I took a deep breath and continued, “ yet whatever he said and stood for, animated on his face…..like a ghost from the past. 

Fifteen months before, I was holidaying in Vermont, loafing around the internet when I came across his page. He was an artist from India and Lord, a true artist indeed!

For hours I scrolled down his page, examining and making sense of his paintings.

A swirl of colours, reckless lines, strokes light and dark that harmoniously made peace with one another, his paintings were magic. Never had I ever been so perplexed. Through his charcoal characters and abstract worlds, I could make out what he must be interested in. I read this man through his paintings. He had a square face with a beard as Godly as the secrets he brushed on his canvas. He was a man in early 30s. I was 27 then.

I started following him on every social media platform and would spend a good time either going through his painting or thinking of him. He wasn't famous but I figured he wasn't in pursuit of fame. What would it be like if I met this man? If only I was surrounded by people like him. Everyday he would upload his new creation of his, every day I would gaze endlessly at his paintings, coming back to them, again and again, seeing if I missed a secret or two.

There was one with a clown-faced lady sitting in the middle of the street while the buildings beside her melted in sun. The abstract one with brittle white drops floating over a wide purple space. I would sink into my chair and think endlessly. Why is he so mysterious? Why is his ache so similar? Why do I see myself in his paintings? At work, I wasn't satisfied with my paintings. Everything that I made felt so shallow and mediocre. I think I wanted to paint like him.

Then one day, my phone pinged,

‘To whoever you are, know that you are beautiful.’ I dropped my phone in surprise. It was him. Dan! He had followed me back on Instagram and sent an image of his painting, the clown-faced lady, with these set of beautiful words. I was not at ease. The colour of my skin changed. I don't remember if it was pale, pink or blue. I was anxious and jumping in joy, That’s what I know.

I typed ‘Thank you human. You just made my day. :)’

In weeks, we kept texting ceaselessly. I was amused to find that he found me interesting. He wanted to see my work. I was shy; my work was not even half as good as his. One evening he sent me a picture, a painting with my signature at the bottom. “Is this yours?” My heart was in my mouth. He had found some of my paintings at an art exhibition. “Hehe! Yeah. Little things I do to keep myself busy.” I had replied after evaluating the meaning of my words for an hour. “If this is a little thing, your best work will probably knock me off my senses.”

For months, we shared words and paintings, drowning into each other’s virtual presence. We had never seen each other, never spoken but he had my heart through his words and his brush, making me ache for another life.

‘See you, in some city, in some country, in this lifetime. Hopefully.’

At times I would hold onto my tears. He was setting a fire inside me. I could never figure out when I started loving him. Maybe it was when he told me that I live in his Karma or maybe when I saw his paintings for the first time. All I knew doubtlessly, was that this man was the archaic thief of my heart and that I would take a long time to get over him. I was wrong. It almost took my life.”

The night dawned upon the solitary deck. Boatman’s eyes were teary. I am certain it wasn't my story, could be the smoke from the grill. Could be.

“That’s why you wanted to take your life? Because he sent you a picture of his painting on In..umm..Ingram? ”

“Instagram, not ingram, old man!” I giggled briefly but an unsettled sigh escaped my body. To let go of my ache or to struggle for peace? To be or not to be? That is the question. I was thinking and grieving, but sharing and unwinding, at the same time.

“Yeah yeah! Resume.” He rolled his eyes around in his sunken sockets.

“It wasn't the Instagram picture, but what followed it. Surprisingly we didn't talk very often. I wanted to but I didn't want him to know that I think about him all the time. Coming off as a consuming and a compulsive friend is big annoyance for a painter, even though most of us are fanatic. After working for the Michigan Art School for a year, they sponsored me for a workshop on an evolutionary South Asian art form, Mithila Painting. I was flying to India in a week. To New Delhi. To a place where Dan creates his art. A place where he lives, and walk and talks and texts from. I was like a cat on the hot bricks. “Should I meet him? Should I not speak of it? I don't even own a proper dress, my hair looks dull and my skin pale.” I was consumed by all kind of thoughts. Thoughts that revolved around nothing but him.

One night before the departure, I finally texted him that I was flying to India and that I wanted to see him. It could be my only chance. I was visiting another country for the first time. I HAD to meet him. He left me a streak of over ten messages in excitement. I could sense it, he was bouncing off the walls too.

In two different corners of the world, two silly humans smiled at their phone screens. In the arms of love, he was just another fool. I was just another fool.

……………………...

Our first meet was scheduled at five in the evening. I had practised being smart and spontaneous in front of a mirror throughout the day. I reached the local bar where we decided to meet. I was minutes early but my hands were shaking in anticipation. I lit a cigarette, had a beer, until I saw the figure of Dan Wani making his way to the table. He was a God. Not in the way he looked, but the way he walked and sat down on the chair and scanned me out of the corner of his curious and cryptic eyes.

For a moment or two as we talked, his eyes were fixed on mine and I was trying hard not to break down in weirdness. I had already thought how I was going to paint him. I should have been comfortable around him but I had all sorts and colours of butterflies in my stomach. More alcohol notably helped.

By the time we got drunk, we had already talked about umpteen things that affected our lives. Work, cafe, coffee, artists, travel. A shallow banter yet something that tied us together in a seemingly unbreakable knot. I loved the sound, and feel, and scent of his presence, so I took pleasure to turn every moment into a masterpiece.

At around 10PM, we caught hold of our surroundings, it was late but the small world we created had no such dimension as time. We teetered about the metro station, our hands intertwined, guffawing over the stern faced cultured, literary scholars. Occasionally commuters would look at us and make faces, we were ‘cultured’ enough to offer enormous belly laughs.

Strange! A man I had never met before, never known before shook me off my senses in a matter of hours.I felt I was freed. He must have been a friend from another time. A magician friend of mine.

He insisted on dropping me home. “Kissing you is like eating a cloud.” He murmured in a state of dwam. I replied next day with a painting. A man chasing a setting sun, a cloud, in the shape of two lips floating over him. I named it “Unison”.

We met every day, in cafes and bars and streets and buses and bus stands. I realised I wasn’t a Mithila Artist. My true inspiration was a walking talking painting. Ten days passed in a state of haze. Naturally, I had no heart to say a goodbye. I wanted him to make me stay. We could run away to a small valley, paint, smoke and breathe and never return but Dan thought time has a habit of rusting away beauty. “All good things are either too short or misunderstood. I would rather lose your presence than losing the idea of you.” I cloaked my affection in a sheath of smiles. His presence in the present made his absence in the future seem insignificant.

10 minutes before my departure to Michigan, he sat down on the floor and scribbled something on a piece of paper, slid it in the pocket of my dress, leaned in, his lips brushed lightly against my ear. His voice, enchanting:

“Brief were my days among you, and briefer still the words I have spoken.
But should my voice fade in your ears, and my love vanish in your memory, then I will come again,
And with a richer heart and lips more yielding to the spirit will I speak.”

There was no turning back. We said no goodbye. I hurried my way to plane, took my seat, covered my face with both of my hands and cried to my heart’s content. I hated how humans were distributed about the planet. No matter how fancily we chose to define it, it was indeed a loss.

Dan’s absence hurt. I was fired from the Art school because I couldn't concentrate on work. I would curl in my blanket all day, travel in my head to the time when my day revolved around him. It was my only escape.

Days trudged along. The clock ticked one tock at a time. Home was nothing like it used to be. I was taken aback to the time when I used to pray for the strength of father’s trembling hands, for if they stopped painting, we'd die of starvation. Dan, my only hope had turned into a desperation. I tried contacting him. Left him a bunch of messages, waited for days for him to reply. No blinking green light on my phone, no paintings, no poetry, none of the letters of my name. I could visit New Delhi again but I was strapped on cash. When I ran out of money completely, I sold some of the belongings, borrowed some bucks for alcohol. “I shall perish of my debauchery if Thou utterly desertest me!” I had told him one drunken night, in a harrowed voice. There I was, slowly perishing in a small apartments miles away from my the one who had deserted me. So I walked towards St. Croix river, let out a silent sigh and offered my weary self to your ‘sacred’ river. But, you had to come along and play your part and here I am, not sure if I should grieve or rejoice.”

The boatman uncupped his face, promptly intertwined his fingers and sighed. A silence fell over the night, the gentle sound of the rippling water breaking on the boulders and the crackling of the coal. The story quietened us.

“I was awfully badly in love with Enna.” He broke the silence. I smiled and moved my chair closer to his.

“And she broke your heart?”

“I thought she did. But we never truly intend to break hearts, do we?” His wrinkled face glowed, as if young blood was running through his veins again.

“Tell me that you married her.” I smirked.

“I woke up before the sun came out and saw a fog in the morning. It stayed just a little while, and then it burned away. Love was that fog, fog that burnt with the first daylight of reality.” He gave me a warm smile. I never really knew what he was hiding behind it, a silly joke, a high that he refused to come down from or a broken heart caged inside an old body. He continued, “Everyone is a fool in love, dear. It is a form of insanity that can't be cured by marriage.”

“But we all want love to stay and age with us. Always. To be immortal.”

“To live to claim love? How? By dying in its name? That's not how you leave it immortal. Humans are not meant to be immortal but we are meant to create something that is. It is all a part of the process and you don't break that flow. You don't mess with the process. Those who do, realize it with time that it wasn't wise of them. At a time when things are beyond repair. Why couldn't you see it? What if I wasn't there to save you? We would have lost you.” He nodded in disbelief.

“We? What’s there to lose? I am a wrecked person. Crippled by my circumstances.” I was biting my lips, holding my tears.

“We. The world. Your gift belongs to them more than it belongs to you. A heartbreak is not the end of your story. Who will write the rest of the chapters? You said he was your walking talking inspiration. That! There you said it yourself. It is the fastest way to heal. You should have kept painting even if it was hard. Painted enough to build a small museum of your tragedies and showed the world how unbreakable you are. Not to fake it, but to be because you are unbreakable, kid."

He took out an old blue checkered napkin from his pocket and handed it over to me. “Wipe them off and try not to kill yourself again.”

He cleared his throat and continued,

“And there is no use in denying that, after all, this Enna girl wasn't a girl of all my dreams, that I managed through the years to build up a shimmering image based upon a pretty idea of her. An idea that was so wonderful that she couldn’t live up to it. I married her, yes and lost her to ‘Always and Forevers’ and to ‘Happily Everafters’. I have never found her, I never will.

But you and Dan took a wise decision. You didn't let your story be ruined by the idea of immortality. At least Dan didn’t, until you took an inane step of taking your life. You have to understand child, after a while something bigger will take its place and you will be glad it happened at some point. I repeat, it is a part of the process and you don't mess with it.”

“I was exhausted.” I sobbed.

“And Naive.” He caressed my forehead. I missed my father.

“I don’t know what to do now.” I managed to speak.

“ You can make paintings out of your life and you can also understand that at times it may cost your heart but something bigger will always be waiting for you to find your way to it. But for now, you can go to sleep. Tomorrow can’t wait to greet you. You must look your best.” He giggled and started folding his blanket. “You can sleep inside but the weather tonight is surprisingly too kind. Sleeping here may help you unwind.” He pointed towards a hammock hanging between two trees on the deck.

“Alright! I'll rest here.”

“Okay then! Sleep well. Come inside if it starts raining. The door is on the left of the house.”

I nodded in consent. He placed another blanket over me. The scent of his tweed coat reminded me of father again. The odour of a far-off world of adults, where everything is stable and safe, where life is resolved and chaos, settled.

The dying flame from the grill casted a flickering shadow on the floor of the deck. He walked towards the trail that led to the door of the hut, his shoes tucked under his arm. He turned, looked at me and said, “Don’t think. Sleep well. Remember, tomorrow can’t wait to greet you and you must look your best.”

His eyes sparkled from distance, as if a truth came floating to the surface but immediately swam back to the bottom.

The murmuring river induced a spell of sleep on me. I was going to sleep well after a very very long time.

………………….

It was humid when I woke up. The sound of the boat battering against the post of the deck didn't allow me to sleep for long.

“The sun will drain your body to death. Find a tree to sleep under.” A woman of about 40 yelled at me in skepticism. She was picking wildflowers from the stream-side.

The sun hurt my eyes. I squinted to look around and found that the place was wrecked, as if a storm ragged itself upon the deck. The chairs were wet and broken. It took me a minute to realize that I didn't wake up where I was sleeping. There was no hammock, none of the blankets around. I rushed towards the hut and found the place was vandalized too. It has to be a storm but why didn't it wake me up, I thought, and where is the boatman. I looked around the house, in every room, in the basement. I could find no trace of him. Infact the house was too shabby to be inhabited. Number of walls had crumbled, the wicker furniture had dried out and was too brittle to use. I just wanted to know if the man was fine. I walked back to the deck and scanned the vast river. I could paint how tarnished but fierce the place looked, if only the boatman returned safe and alive. Maybe he took a boat to tool around the river or to visit someone,I thought and waited.

The forty-something-woman trudged her way through mud to me.

“Are you lost?” She looked confused.

“No. Are you?”

“No. I come here everyday to collect flowers in the interest of a household I work for.” She smiled.

“Oh! Then you must know what happened here. I woke up to find the place in a havoc.”

“The weather has been hot but calm. I didn't hear of a storm. I live nearby. The deck has always looked the same, maybe you didn't notice in dim light of the night.” She sat beside me.

“No. I was sleeping on a hammock with the blankets the boatman gave me,” I raised my finger towards the tree on the ridge of the deck, “also, he is gone. You can ask him when he returns. Do you know him?”

“The house doesn't belong to anyone. Nobody lives in the house. The deck is too fragile to bear weight of a healthy human. We never let our kids play there.”

“I am not sure if you are getting me. The man hosted me. We ate grilled fish and talked for hours. The house looked fine too and the deck, in no way looked fragile. I was there hours ago.”

She rose, dusted her clothes and started walking. “Did your mom bring you here when you were a kid? You must be hallucinating or dreaming. The boatman with a fetish for grilled fishes took his life years ago. You should get some sleep.” She muttered something under her breath in a distasteful manner and hurried away.

I felt weak in the knees. I tried not to buy what she said but her words kept ringing in my ears. The boatman with a fetish for grilled fishes took his life years ago. I went back to the house and realized it wasn't the storm. The storm couldn't gather a thick uniform layer of dust over everything. A storm couldn't rot the paint on the wall in a matter of hours. The polished deck can’t turn into a wreck in a night. A girl who was drowning to the bottom couldn't be saved by an old timid man. At least not without getting himself drenched. I thought of how crisp and fresh his clothes looked when I saw him after I regained my senses. The boatman with a fetish for grilled fishes took his life years ago. Her voice refused to leave. I looked through the window. She was about to reach the bridge, the bridge from where I had jumped a day before. I ran towards her, shouting, asking her to stop. I felt worn-out and giddy. I wanted to puke it out but I had to see her.

“What do you want now? Please let me go back in peace.”

“The boatman..” I was out of breath, puffing out words to make sense, “The boatman….why...why did he take his life,” The winds were evidently sharp and sonorous, cutting upon the beams of the bridge, making my voice sound feeble and weightless.

“I can’t hear you.” She shrieked.

I bent down and clasped my knees. “Why... did the boatman take his life?”

“His wife, Enna, she left him for another man.”

I lost my grip, my hands dangled, it was a weight too heavy to bear. He had talked about her. Did I spend my night talking to a dead man? A million questions cluttered my mind. A wall of question I couldn't break through. She continued, “He was a kind man. The best fisherman Croix has ever known. Should have waited for bigger things to happen. After all, a heartbreak is not an end to a life’s story.” She shrugged and hastened on her way.

I held the handrails, picked myself up and looked down into the waters. Everything looked the same, felt the same, smelt the same. Only I had changed.

I sat on the lonesome bridge for hours. The winds kept howling even after dusk fell. I kept going back to his words, his wisdom, his fatherly advice, chose not to wonder who saved me, or why was I saved at all. Maybe I was truly hallucinating, maybe it was all part of a process and I shouldn't mess it up with overthinking. All I knew was that, I was going to let go of the trouble, sleep it off for a day or two and then begin anew. I had to free the tremendous world buried inside me to free myself and I had to do that without tearing myself to pieces. In the words of the boatman, I had to build a museum of my tragedies and stories.

I trod lightly towards edge of the bridge. In the distance, a solitary boat sailed up the river. The yellow light from boat gently reflected on the water. Second after second, the reflection was scattered into ripples by soft strokes of an oar. The song of a boatman rowing far far way, echoed through the space.

“Mr Sandman, someone to hold would be so peachy before we're too old

So please turn on your magic beam, Mr Sandman, bring us, please, please, please. 

Mr Sandman, bring us a dream.”

Everything was going to be alright. I thought. This is the sign.