1. The Best Way To Die
Once upon a time a boy decided to die. It was a brave decision, a product of poignant propositions and grim persuasions. Achilles knew he would die young which made living a tad less complex to him. This boy was to end his complexities too. There was no Patroclus here who had been killed, there was no Briseis here who had been wronged, and here was no glory here after death. Yet it seemed to him the only answer.
After much deliberation he decided upon drowning. It seemed less painful and a humble way to die. Slitting veins he had to admit was overtly melodramatic and overrated. Most people often live doing that. And it is awfully embarrassing to get out of the house with serpents drawn on your wrist. Burning oneself is way too clumsy and dangerous, one can actually get burnt. The aftermath isn’t impressive at all. Killing oneself with revolver, he thought, is difficult to say the least. The whole pulling the trigger thing is too much science in a simple artistic act. And stabbing would just do the trick if done by someone else. But it takes away the whole point of suicide, he reflected.
So he had to drown. He chose the icy Yamuna of winters to do so.
2. Bashir
The night was a painter’s dream. Just enough gloom and mist. Just enough grief and wind. The ruddy iron bridge and the river beneath. The bridge, it seemed, stood on the mist. The mist, it seemed, was the river. The river was nowhere to be seen. Just a melancholy stillness. Just a forlorn lover’s pant, for those with keen ears. Amidst the imposing environs was the meek, waspish figure of the boy, sitting on the iron bridge, feeling cold and miserable. From where he sat it was a still sea of mist. It didn’t look dangerous to jump from there. It seemed a fluffy cushion, inviting and comfortable. He was dangling his legs swinging them to and fro, when suddenly a strong current of wind pierced his body, and snatched away the foggy cushion from his eyes.
It would have been dramatically beautiful if he had not been in a torpor. Something ominously dark was visible underneath, from where he sat. It glimmered faintly. It was the frozen river. He shrugged off his fear, for a while, and cautiously lifted his legs up and circled his hands around them. He aught to look up. He should look up. Up was heavenly. It was where the goods things were. The stars, and the moon, and the warriors and the fairies. But he won’t. He was there to die. He had to look down, at death.
“It’s a beauty, this river, isn’t it? Too cold to appreciate the scenery though!”, came a nasally husky voice, too sure of itself, not boastful, but confident and clear. The boy looked with dreadful astonishment at the source of it. The source had a big nose. That was the first thing you noticed about him. An awfully big nose. Everything, his eyes, his lips, even his hooked chin, in comparison seemed scattered and small. It stood there on his face – a cave, a fort, a palace! A big, big nose! It gave a flare to his voice. He spoke as if reciting a ballad. He came close to the boy. The boy stood up in fear. The man was like nothing he had seen. He wore a ragged suit, made of thick jute, badly patched. He had a superb torch in his hand made of silver and gold. He was of an average height, a little short of six feet – somewhat disproportionate to his miraculous nose. His hairs weren’t visible as they were nicely covered by the above mentioned assortments. And his cheeks were shaved to perfection!
“Don’t be perturbed, child! Just here to do my work. Be comfortable. It’s a great night to sit on the bridge. The full moon, you see!” He presently searched something in his pocket and found a rare black bottle. He opened it and sipped a mouthful of the secret beverage and gleefully exclaimed, “Ah! Now that’s something!” He then sat down on the bridge and started swinging his legs.
“Won’t you sit? It’s colder when you stand. And a tad distracting too!” He said again drinking from his black bottle and again gestured in contentment as earlier. The boy at once sat at his place. He too let his legs swing. The wind every now and then brought the mist or else the moon. There was silence for sometime, barring the intermittent joyful ‘Ah’s’ of the peculiar man. Meanwhile the boy kept looking at everything everywhere – down, above, besides and below – so he could stealthily now and then see the amazing presence without seeming to do so.
“Would you have a sip? It aught to thaw your blood!”, said the man utterly satisfied with his beverage. The boy was too curious to bother about thawing anything.
“Sir, if I may ask..Er..Who are you?”, asked the boy as courteously as possible, trying to stifle the rudeness inherent in such questions.
“I am the bridge-keeper, child. I am in charge of the bridge, you see? Tough job, isn’t it?”, he smiled flashing his not so brilliant yellow teeth and a badge on his teeth colored shirt. The Badge read:
“Bashir, Bridges of Yamuna, Delhi”
He then conjured up from his pocket a filling form of sorts. The boy looked bewildered. It had written on it in big black ugly capitals, “ANNEXURE S,” written by hand, followed by a list of questions. There were three pages worth of words written on them.
“Oh! Don’t be scared! Just a little trifle..Some of these questions have simple enough answers – like your name, your age, your hobbies, and whether you’d like to jump with or without clothes. It would be over in few minutes..”, he smiled again, the teeth shining as pale as a sunflower. The boy latched on to his last words. Yes, it would be all over in few minutes. But he had a question himself too.
“You mean to say I have to fill it?”, he asked, stunned.
“Oh yes! We keep record of every little thing that happens on this bridge. Even as little as a boy ending his life..”, he spoke winking his eyes, followed by a hearty laugh.
“How do you know? How do you know I am here to end my life? Can’t I be here for any other reason? Maybe I like sitting on bridges in winter nights..”
“Oh we know! We know.” His smile gave way to a grave musing. “And if you really liked sitting on the bridges in frigid nights, we would have known that too. Those who love doing that also fill up a form.” He said slurping again a big gulp of his beverage.
“What if I jump from here, without filling the form? What would you do then?” Asked the boy wildly.
“I’ll save you. More precisely, they will save you..” he pointed with his torch at the freezing river. There were two men, sitting on a canoe, which stood on the river. They too switched on their torches. One of them yelled, “Any glitch?”
“No! Just checking if you dimwits are alive! Is it cold down there?” Bashir yelled back and laughed hysterically. He then flashed his torch on the boy..
“Put that away, Sir!” The boy was infinitely irritated. It seemed there wasn’t even dying peacefully in this life. There was this queer man ruining the most important night of his life. His last one too.
“Okay, we should get on with the form without further a due.” Bashir said, laying out from his pocket, an ink pot and a pen, and hanging his torch via protruding thread, from the bridge. He was a perfect professional when it came to hang torches, and producing things from his pocket. He seemed to carry half a world in them! But he was perplexed. A nagging little matter.
“On the other hand, let’s not fill the form,” hushed Bashir, casting his eyes frantically, to the right, and the left, and at the river, making sure he wasn’t being overheard, “I know I’ll pay for it! But, does it matter? Does anything matter? No! It doesn’t. So let’s not fill the form! It is what kills man! These – these – forms and formalities. Let’s not fill the form! Let us do something – formless – something , something airy, something as powerful and as formless as the wind, something worthwhile to make ourselves, though for once, proud that we have the ability to speak. That we are, at some precise moments like these, after all, human beings. Let us not fill the form! Let us do something more becoming of us.” Bashir was hot in his ears. But was quickly embarrassed. He knew he shouldn’t have said all that. It was unbecoming of the Bridge-Keeper.
Bashir gulped some more from his flask. He perfectly knew he shouldn’t have said that all.
“What shall we do?” Asked the boy. His voice had a touch of the winter. It shivered.
“Well!”, exclaimed Bashir in rapture, not perplexed now. “I have a story book. I can read you a story, if you like..”
Better than the form, thought the boy.
3. Tale Of The Queen
“There once was a prosperous country ruled by a great King. The icy mountains protected it’s sacred boundaries, the dark forests kept its secrets and the kind river flowed ever so gently. The King, after battling valiantly for years in violent wars – in which he saw his sons die, and his daughters widowed – had the first ever bounty of lazy leisure at his disposal. And he was prepared for it! He would every now and then take a stroll on the grey pavements of his beloved kingdom, with his beloved wife. They were a glorious pair. They would venture into any house they liked to have some beetroot soup (a specialty of the kingdom), and the ever fresh basil roti. They played with the children, the motley games of endlessly flexible rules. They held grave discussions with their daughter, who had succeeded the King, on the most important matters of administration, such as the clause pertaining to the Legalization of Astrology. And when the din of the day subsided, they had the marvelous train of stars in the twilight for themselves. At evening, they loved to visit the three Seers – Seer Mountain, white and caring, Seer Lake, green and comforting, and Seer Forest, black and frightening. That’s when they were sad.
The Queen spent her time near the Lake, alone, crying for her irrevocable loss, mourning for her demised children. The kind Seer Lake then sat besides her, stroking her hair, singing her the ballads of her own adventures, and telling her stories of the glorious battles between the Seers, and thus comforting her, albeit ephemerally. But behind every gesture and every smile and every breath, the Queen knew, something had gone terribly wrong, something, something important had become insignificant. Hers was a miserable life. She played joyous before the King. She knew how important she was to him.
And the King often talked to the Mountain. His God and his friend. The King talked to him, and he listened, interrupting every now and then, with a rich maxim or a taut couplet.
And then, they both together kneeled before the Forest. There they said nothing. There was no need to. The Forest replied nonetheless. Each one could hear that which was said to them. The grave voice of the Seer, echoed in their hearts and minds. Sometimes the King heard the voices of the dead. Sometimes he heard, in the most untangled language, the truth. And he was most scared then, and stifled his urge to cry. That was when he looked at the Queen and found her forcing a smile.”
Bashir here paused to sip from his peculiar flask, and smoke a still peculiar Cigarette. “It’s made by us, you see..Sheer artistry, isn’t it?” It really was. It was a big blue coloured Cigarette, as rare as the man smoking it. He then lighted it, reveling in the shapeless frenzy of the smoke. It was quiet. Quiet of a solemn funeral.
4. Tale Of The Seer Forest
“What did the Seer Forest tell the King?”, asked the boy in grave rapture, looking at the singular figure of the Bridge-Keeper that shone variably as the athwart rays of the moon and the torch vied for supremacy over his face. He was worried about the Queen. He could imagine someone crying besides a river. He knew it wasn’t nice. More so when the river was cold and silent.
“Oh yes,” said Bashir, flung back from his reverie, and started,”But first let me tell you something about The Seer Forest.” His began reading from his book, in a light hardly conducive to reading.
“Long ago when the Kingdom was not a Kingdom, as there had been no King, the rustic savages, innocent and simple, lived contently amongst the forests. There wasn’t a worldly worry, nor any ostentatious happiness. Lives were good, for the surroundings were good. They worshiped the flowers, and the bushes, and the trees and the birds. And the leader led for the mere name of it, as the kind spirit of the Forest was their friend, their prophet and their leader. It was all good until one day a superior clan of the Mountains came along the river in their stoic boats and started a war, which continued till every forest man was killed, and woman and children reduced to sad servility. During the massacre, the spirit of the Forest went to majestic and lustrous spirits of the Mountain and the River to stop the cruelties, and end the carnage. The Mountain said,”Kind Seer, what followed was inevitable..” and the River replied,”Do not mourn the Dead, Seer. You are merely bringing vain grief to yourself. The human life isn’t worth your tears.”
“But the Seer Forest knew there was something of a man, a woman, and a child in him. He knew there was something of a bird, an ant, a leopard in him. Why shouldn’t he mourn their loss? Seer mourned, and still mourns. He never said a word to the Mountain or the River. But he whispered to those, still savage and simple in their hearts. They would hear him weep. This is the sad tale of the Seer Forest..”
The boy sat there with his eyes closed. He remembered his visit to a forest, long time back. He was scared, when to his utter joy he saw a river, shallow as a tear, flowing idly. And he hugged his mother. And he was happy. A long time back.
“Why, you must be hungry Child? A boy your age stuffs food fit for seven orangutans!” Bashir laughed.
“But we don’t have any food..” The boy stated the obvious.
“Don’t worry it’ll be arranged.” Bashir brought out his pocket watch and exclaimed with glee,”The Train shall arrive anytime now!”
The boy wasn’t too comfortable with the notion. A train on this bridge? He chose it in the first place as it was one of the abandoned bridges, strictly not for the trains! He shared the same bit of knowledge with Bashir to point out his mistake.
“Sir, you must be wrong! Trains surely don’t pass this bridge!” asserted the boy, as politely as he could.
“They surely do. At least this one.” He pointed in the direction of the extreme end of the bridge, bathed in ghostly whiteness. There wasn’t anything for a while, except for the impeccable white. But then, a faint sound came, as if from eternity. The sound grew gloriously to a melodious monotony, accompanied with the frenzied whistles of the engine. The boy couldn’t believe a train would come on the same bridge he was sitting. He was held back by Bashir on the edge of the bridge. He was scared to say the least.
5. Milk, Curry & Rice
The train stood on the bridge ensuing creaks and groans of the latter. It’s coaches were lit merrily, and from heavens it must have looked as if little sparkling bulbs fitted to the bridge. A sleeping Christmas tree. The earthen pots of Diwali. The coach which followed the engine was oozing bliss, it seemed to the boy. It was the most divine fragrance in the whole wide world. He knew it must be food!
“That sure must have tickled your senses boy! I know mine are well tickled! It’s the curry!” Bashir was exuberant. The door of the coach was almost touching their noses. It was open. From there the boy could see the vast blackness beyond the opposite door, which too was unlocked. As he was moving his head up and down, shifting his eyes from the lighted coach’s floor to the cold blackness beyond the door and again back to the light ( it seemed a great illusion to him) and then again to the door, his revelry was interrupted by a heavily coated figure. He looked like a ball of clothes, with just enough space where a face was drawn, which too was generously covered with hair. He wore a green turban.
“Those buffoons here too, Bashir?” Asked the man, in his surprisingly squeaky voice, looking down at them from the edge of the door.
“Oh yes, and alive!” The man laughed heartily at Bashir’s quip. He flashed in the process, unfortunately, his black teeth, all four of them.
“And I reckon, the little boy would eat too?” He asked Bashir looking at the boy.
“He will. Will you?” Bashir asked the boy looking at him. To which, the boy simply nodded.
“Oh blessed! I’ll bring some hot milk too! Lots of chocolate and cinnamon!” And saying that, he was gone inside, in a flash. He came back in a minute or so, with four brass boxes, and a glass, made of brass, full of the chocolaty, cinnamony milk.
“I am out of smoke and the flask is empty too..” Bashir held the flask upside down to prove the fact.
“Ours too!” The two man who were stationed on the river had come, rather miraculously, thought the boy. Both of them looked more like humans, and looked a lot younger than Bashir. The big man again went inside and came out. He handed over them the bundles of cigarettes. Some blue, some green, some red. And then, handed them new flasks.
“Oh thank you fat man! I would have married you if you weren’t so ugly, and so fat, and if you did not always smell of turmeric!” The first young man exclaimed.
“But nonetheless we love you!” Said the second.
“That’s all I suppose! Or you two dimwits want some thrashing too!” He then, whistled loudly and with a customary jolt the train started moving. The bridge creaked, louder than before.
“You will love the food, Son! Eat from these fools’ boxes if it’s not enough. And, be well!” He then winked and smiled looking at Bashir. Bashir waved Goodbye. The train passed gathering mist, and leaving no trace, ever so little, of its ever having been there.
6. The Death
The feast was done with. It involved some marvelous curry, and some not so marvelous rice. Milk was the high point of it all. The train was but gone and with it, the light. Bashir hung the torch again with ingenuity. It were the only source emanating light, apart from the burning tip of the Cigarette and the ever shy moon. Things were back to gloomy.
The boy hung his legs again from the bridge. He came to know something profound that night – it feels colder when one’s full! But with the novel sensation came the old grief. He was still away from his home. He was still on the bridge to die. It was high time Bashir ended his story.
“So, what did the Forest Seer tell the King?” Asked the boy looking at the white smoke as it dissolved effortlessly in the mist.
“What do you think he told him?”, replied Bashir looking at him with searching eyes.
“Something bad, I reckon..”, he was still looking at the ghostly smoke.
“Something bad. Yes, it was bad. Bad, as the rain is. Bad, as death used to be.”
“When earlier everything was as the way it should be, joyous and without grief, when there was no war and no one died in futility, one could have heard the soothing melodies of grief and joy, songs and lore of the savage, and sweet and balmy ballads of the wind and the birds and sometimes, sweeter and balmier still, the supernal silence of the mighty Seer. But after things went the way they went – all miserable, and sad, and fragmented, and heavy – one would hear ominous groans, and violent screeches, and dreary sobs; it seemed as if the forest wailed, with the owls, and the wolves; the dead leaves rustled as the dead tread upon them; the wind added to the woeful song, notes of utter despair; the Forest cried. And crying he told the King to save the Queen, but still he cried, for he knew no one could save her.”
“What did the King do?”, asked the boy with something warm in his eyes.
Bashir resumed.
“The King tried all he could. He pleaded and begged, and even confined her. But he knew one morning when he would be most longing to see her face and kiss her, she would be gone, leaving him a frail and a cursed man. She did the same. She went to the River. She was lulled to sleep by the River. That day the River dressed the Queen herself, with moon like pearls, and a tiara of most fragrant flowers, and freshest leaves. She then, sang to her, her loveliest song. She stroked her hairs, and then, her arms. The nymphs of the river cried in silence for the song was sad. But they were happy for the Queen. And as the song died, to remain a faint memory, so did the Queen..”
“It’s about time.” Said Bashir gravely, looking at his pocket-watch.
“Time for what?” Asked blankly, the boy.
“The change of shifts, dear. Someone else will come now.” Bashir looked at the boy with hope of something – a schism of sorts, a spark. But he couldn’t see any spark, nor any schism. He hoped for him to live. Desperately so.
The boy looked at him and forced a smile.
The silence was of profound vitality. It rushed around one’s ears, chilling every bit as it did so. It was all engulfing, all absorbing – it drank away the smaller noises ruthlessly. It was something tangible, one could feel it on one’s spine, and on one’s brows, and in one’s knees, and in one’s heart. Maybe one could hear the river crack in the morning, the boy thought. One could hear the river crack in the morning, Bashir knew.
“You must know a lots of tales?” Asked the boy to tear the silence.
“Yes, I do! One for each day of my life. That means roughly three for each day of yours! Or something akin to that. Never been good at numbers.” Bashir winked and smiled in his acquired way, which for boy now had turned into those signs of assurances one looks for in those one admires.
“Me neither! But I like stories, you see. Earlier, I’d be sad if someone died in a story. But now it seems, there is nothing else more precious to do. There should be some kind of peace in it. Some justification. Don’t you think? In dying..” It wasn’t a mere philosophical question. Bashir knew that. He dreaded he knew that. All precariously stood on his answer, it seemed. He tried to prepare a logical statement in his head. But logic was hard to come by in such a terrible cold! Bashir just felt how numbingly cold it was!
But the boy seemed to have prepared an answer.
“I think, every time, someone dies in a story, they save someone from doing the same.” He uttered in a heavy, laborious voice, though clear and strong.
“What will you do, boy? Shall – shall we fill the form?” Bashir forced the question out with much difficulty and sorrow. He could not bear to look at the boy. It is about time.
“I think I prefer stories more.” Said the boy, half to himself.
Bashir felt something akin to a flood in his heart. But his face remained inscrutable.
“I’ll make sure someone dies at the end though!” Bashir took the opportunity to make a joke. He never wasted one.
The boy laughed like a boy should laugh. With his teeth glaring, with his body shivering. Bashir stood up and and began untying the torch. He told the the boy the train would come soon. It was about time. Time to say goodbye.
“You are a good man. You must have saved many lives.” Boy said to Bashir, looking at the river, faintly visible. It wasn’t still morning, and from the heavy darkness one could just cut faint figures from the reality of things. Or to support contrary theory, one could just see the reality the things.
“You’ll be the first.” Said Bashir, winking and smiling.
He smiled, as a man should smile. Happily.
The train would come.
___
