Death of Sorts

Quotidian Tales
4 min readNov 15, 2021

I must admit here that when we were “on the threshold of being no more,” we succeeded in being more…..Unwittingly, the ‘eye’ preceded the ‘I’ and for the first time, we realized what it means to not take this life for granted.

It seemed to be over. The doctor had pronounced her dead. A surreptitious surgery beset by infections and indolence, further beefed up by outrageous alterations in her tenderly tactile anatomy. That was a vicious verdict on a not-so-vindictive day. Our senses were getting slaughtered as both of us held on to each other, flickering, yet firm to combat cancer that had reared its serpentine head to seize our mother. The next two weeks were a blur of medical jargon, interminable investigations, cursory calls, and feverish faith. It was decided or perhaps destined. ‘Mamoni’, as we lovingly called her, would need to be airborne to another city that proposed a prospect that was propitious and prevailing.

The surgery took a little more than twelve hours but intermittently the progress paused as our pulses did. While my lips pursed in prayers, his eyes strangely manifested a tomorrow that would turn true to us. At the end of the grueling, uncountable hours, the doctors looked disheveled yet derived, and she was placed in the intensive care unit for us to meet her through the frosted glass. The woman, exhausted, on the white sheets was barely recognizable but her countenance boldly reflected the battle she bore for us. She had never really stood up for herself these sixty-odd-and-more years. But somehow, this evening, the individual we knew had passed, and like the Phoenix, unknowingly, arose a new self, who reminded me of the words of Samuel Beckett: “…you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.”

With time, the chemotherapy ran its course. As it advanced, we witnessed the slaying of her beauty and brevity till the point she despised her reflection or spending time with herself. Who knew that the dead hair shafts had the potency to animate a person and impart dignity to her demeanor? How could snuffing out of one’s natural reflexes have a direct impact on her determination to continue? And yes, how could one fathom that the fatal disease could touch your lives when the whole world was mercilessly succumbing to it… Such perpetual probes became a part of us as ends and conceptions intermingled to forge a schedule that stared at…

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