by Anindita Sarkar
He saw his mother through the glass window of the intensive care unit. She was lying with calm on her face wrapped in a light blanket, a mechanical ventilator was feeding her lungs ceaselessly. The pain had subsided, he realized and felt a little optimistic. He saw men in white hazmat suits cruising in and out of the unit with no room for a talk. The sky was darkening ominously almost like a warning, he needed to depart.
It became a nightly ritual for him to visit his mother, in the hospital. The stench of the antiseptic cleansers no longer bothered him. Suddenly his eyes met his mother’s, she had abroad innocent smile on her face. He stood numb for a while, trying to trace a path of escape. He didn’t want to greet her. He hurriedly jerked out of the main corridor. People were scattered in groups in the almost secluded waiting room comforting each other, waiting for a verdict. He swiftly descended the stairs like a river welding through a valley, his head sunk between his shoulders, a deep sigh on his face. The receptionist at the desk was glued to the telephone evidently talking to a friend and not a customer.
As he stepped out the black sky suddenly illuminated with zig-zag lightnings, cars’ headlights beamed vividly, the street lamps blazed on the empty asphalt sidewalk. He adjusted his eyes to the blinding burst of light and walked on towards his destination. A flock of tawny birds was flying back to their abode, fighting against the cold breeze. He watched them till they were gone and only the sound of the flapping of wings and ruffling of feathers lingered. A group of small bats skimmed through the sky, as a part of their nocturnal adventure. He paused briefly in front of the crossing, feeling lost, he searched for signs of the path towards his destination as the streets ahead were confusing.
He passed a café where there were no human diners but mannequins at the tables. Nobody dined out, people swapped romantic dinners for homemade food. The city had no time for intimacy, the pandemic was to be blamed. It started raining, he spotted one or two people on the road running for shelter. The drizzle obscured their features but the mask on their faces was noticeable. Notwithstanding the rain, he braved the squalls clasping his arms together in his long grey coat, certain that he was on the right track. His hairs were wet and hung damp to his shoulders.
He finally found himself on the edge of avast expanse, barricaded by a moss-laden black fence. There was no one around. It was a makeshift graveyard strewn with mounds. He took a moment to gaze at the headstones almost all of them were splattered with clumps of flowers, except his. He sank onto his knees filled with despair. “I hope you get well soon mother. I don’t want you to be here,” he mumbled in a feeble attempt at reassurance and slowly melted into the earth.
Anindita Sarkar is a Research Scholar from India. She completed her MA in English Literature and is presently persuing her Mphil Degree from Jadavpur University, India. Her works have appeared in Indolent Books, Door is Ajar, Litbreak, The Bombay Review, Bosphorous Review, among others.
