I Dreamt of You

The night sky was clear with no stars. Only the moon hung there alone, like a single big white dot on a black blanket that never spreads thin.

“I’m not doing okay,” I thought out loud, as I stared at the moon while staggering on the parapet of my apartment’s terrace. Only a few inches separated me from the concrete floor, 60 ft underneath me, that was eager to pull me in. I could jump now and no one would notice; leap of death. Unlike the leap of faith, it’s literal than metaphorical. You leap. You die. No in-betweens.

A soft but shaken female voice reached me from my left side. “Chano?”

I immediately knew who it was. I turned my head towards the direction of the voice. I saw her. And she was still beautiful; black leather jacket, blue jeans, and shoulder-length hair. Classic Alia. Pretty girl with a problematic upbringing. You would know it is her from miles away.

“What are you doing here?” she tried to approach me, cautiously.

I waved her off and she stopped in her tracks. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t do this, Chano. Please.”

Suddenly I was angry. My throat went dry. My brown eyes leaked tears. My lips trembled. “How dare you ask that of me?”

She dropped her head in shame. She couldn’t answer that question.

“We could’ve fixed everything but you had to leave, right? Why? Why would you do that?” I blurted out the questions that were haunting me for months now; questions I knew I could never get answers for.

“You didn’t know me, Chano. What you knew is what I let you know. You won’t understand my reasons.”

My feet started to hurt after standing for so long. But my heart ached more. “It doesn’t matter anymore. This won’t make any difference to you.”

“Not everything is about me, Chano.” She leaned on the parapet as she peered at me. Only she could say the harshest words in the most sensitive of scenarios. Classic Alia. A spoonful of mystery and a handful of melancholy.

“You remember the time when we randomly decided to drive around the city?”

Alia nodded, a smile creased on her lips. “Then the bike stopped in the middle of a bustling road and you were panting like crazy, dragging the damn thing with you.”

“Yeah,” I looked up at the night sky. “I was sweating profusely but I felt okay. Alright. Because you were with me. I felt like I could do anything if you were with me.”

She looked away. She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t answer. Classic Alia. Confused mostly but composed always.

The cold air hit me and the pull of the concrete floor, 60 ft underneath me, felt stronger. My aching feet could go numb any minute now. Then, I wouldn’t be able stand. Then, I had to jump. So I looked at her and said, intending to end the conversation soon, “I just want to feel okay again. Is it too much to ask?”

“No, but life’s messed up, Chano. What you want and what you get is not always the same.”

“Why can’t you tell me that it’ll be alright?”

“Why do you want me to say that?”

“Because it makes a difference. Because I want to hope that life’s not this hard all the time.”

“I read somewhere that life is what you make it.”

“Yeah, right. Preeti Shenoy can store her optimism in her bank locker. I don’t care enough.”

“So you have decided then?”

I nodded without a hint of doubt, probably for the first time in my life.

“You do know there’s no going back?”

“I know. I don’t want to go back.”

“Okay then,” she stood straight and gazed at me for a few seconds. “I’ll miss you,” she started walking back, still facing me.

“I’ll miss you too. But I hope I don’t remember that.”

Then I jumped. Leap of Death. They say it’s the fall that kills you. Not just the landing at the end. But I wouldn’t have remembered that. Because I closed my eyes. I gave in. I lost hope. And losing hope was freedom.

Then I woke up. In my bed. Perspiring forehead and all. I gasped in shock and gulped in fear. My lungs had difficulty functioning for a few moments. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I felt a lump in my throat and a heavy stone bearing down on my skull.

The brown fan whirred noisily, too slow to cool me down. The cream-colored ceiling above it hosted spider webs on the edges that hung loosely like hammocks. But not until I looked at the blackboard behind me with yellow sticky notes all over it, I realized I was in my room and that I had cried myself to sleep without turning the light off.

I walked into the shared hostel bathroom and washed my face, cooling down my fiery red eyes. Then I came back to my room, tore out a note, and scribbled on it and pasted it in the corner. I dreamt of you, the note read. Just like all the other notes, almost 50, that had the same content on it. I dreamt of you.

I stared at the blackboard for a long time and decided what I had to do next. It was impulsive, yes, but not with a hint of doubt. I don’t want to go back. So, I packed my bag, took a long shower, put on my clothes and my blue sweater. I locked my room after scanning it for one last time and then I headed for the exit.

The security guard was knocked out. He was snoring like a madman, all credits to the sleeping pills in his evening coffee. I walked past him and went behind the hostel building. A wall with three rows of metal knots above it towered over me.

I took out the ladder that I had hidden in plain sight amidst the growing weeds. I climbed to the top of the wall, carefully, and I leaped to the other side. I could see my bike parked a few blocks away, brimming with petrol and ready for a long ride.

I sprinted towards it, hopped on it, and drove like I was possessed. And I started chanting something in my head as I aimed to go nowhere. A mantra that always worked for me. It helped me filter out the chaos. It made me stable.

Relations? Shallow. You? Hollow.

Feelings? Worthless. Past? Overcome.

Life? Suffer. Survive.

As I raced past the lazy cars and loud two-wheelers, the cold breeze made me tighten my jaws and clench my teeth. Goosebumps shot up on my skin. My heart thumped hard. And I extended my hands and shouted. Whoo!!!

I could feel the intensity of air shoving into my nose and mouth. My lungs, I swear, could taste freedom. And for that brief moment, lost in euphoria, as I looked at the moon, the single big white dot on a black blanket that never spreads thin, I thought of her. I thought of Alia.

12 years ago

Alia was 18 and pretty when I first saw her. Objectively 18. Objectively pretty. She had prominent scars below her wrists and she always hid them under her black or blue leather jacket.

I told her she was pretty. She smiled at me. I fell in love with her smile. I was later told it was the first time she smiled after a long. long gap. So, I promised myself that I’d make her smile as much as I can.

6 years ago

Alia and I were sitting next to each other on the sofa, killing time.

“Call me Chano from now on,” I said, with my head resting on her shoulder.

“Why?” she asked, preoccupied with her phone.

“There’s this character in this book. I like him.”

“So?”

I lifted my head and turned her face towards me. “So, call me Chano.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Okay… Chano.”

“Good girl.”

5 years ago

I had been dragging my bike for a mile now; after it had stopped in the middle of a bustling road. Alia laughed, looking at me.

“You wouldn’t laugh if you had to drag it all by yourself.”

Alia didn’t respond. She just kept on laughing.

“Why do you have to leave?” I asked, out of the blue.

She wasn’t surprised. She was expecting it. “Because this city is boring, yaar.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

I stopped in my tracks and tried to look serious. “Why do you always do that?”

“Okay, sorry,” she smiled, which made me smile.

“I’ll call you every day, okay?” she promised.

3 years ago

I sprinted over the stairs, skipping some stairs in-between. My heart was pounding and I was panting but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t slow down until I reached the terrace and found Alia standing on the parapet. She was on spaghetti legs, trying to balance herself.

Alia looked at me, surprised at first but annoyed later. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” I retorted.

She finally steadied herself. I tried to approach her. But she waved me off.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“You told me once a fall higher than 50 ft can kill a person and that our apartment is 60 ft.”

“Smart kid.”

“Don’t do this, Alia. Please.”

She looked at me with lifeless eyes. “Life’s messed up, Chano.”

“We can fix it. Whatever the problem is. I swear.”

But you can’t talk her out of some things. They are stuck in her mind permanently. There’s no altering them. Classic Alia. Loved by pain and embraced by death.

“I’m sorry that you have to see this.”

“Alia, please, I’m begging you.”

Alia looked at the moon, a single big white dot on a black blanket that never spreads thin. “Look at the moon, Chano. It will tell me if you are doing okay.”

Then she jumped. I screamed first and then wept in agony.

Present

After Rohan, aka Chano, had an accident while driving his bike late night on a highway

Mallika made her way hurriedly to the ICU ward. The doctor was just coming out of Rohan’s room.

“Doctor, how is he?” Her eyes welled up instantly.

“You are his mother?”

She nodded. “Tell me how he is doing.”

“A lot of damage happened to his legs and there were a few lacerations on different parts of his body. But he’ll be fine soon. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Mallika sighed in relief. “Can I see him?”

“Sure.”

Mallika walked inside and looked at her 18-year-old kid. He had bandages all over his body and his left leg was elevated onto the bedpost with pillows underneath. He looked terrible but Mallika was glad that he was alive. She couldn’t have swallowed another loss.

Not after Alia. Especially, not on the day of Alia’s third death anniversary.

Alia was Mallika’s stepdaughter. She had been a troubled kid from the get-go. When Mallika had married Ankur after her divorce, Alia had been 18. She was always on the verge of a breakdown. She had prominent scars below her wrist all because of her psycho mother. And Mallika was scared that she’d be a bad influence on Rohan.

But Ankur managed to convince her somehow and Alia seemed happy seeing Rohan and smiled, according to Ankur, for the first time after a long long gap. But everything went downhill after she joined a girls’ hostel five years ago. She was bullied and battered.

She was brought back as soon as she and Ankur found out. But it was too late. The damage was done. There was no hope in her eyes. She was a ticking time bomb. And making Mallika’s apprehensive thoughts come true, Alia had killed herself. That too, right in front of Rohan. An experience like that would scar anyone for life. Same for Rohan who had loved Alia dearly. He blamed himself for not being able to save her.

And now, Mallika couldn’t control her sobs. Her son looked broken, inside and out. She wished she knew what to do about it.

Rohan fluttered his eyes open. Mallika noticed and quickly moved towards him. He looked at her.

“Rohan, you’re alright now, love. Everything is okay now.” She couldn’t stop crying.

Rohan whispered something. Mallika couldn’t hear. So, she moved closer to him and put her ear right above his mouth. Then he uttered, with a groggy voice, “I dreamt of her, Ma. I dreamt of my sister who died before me.”

THE END

© Adithya Kavuri 2019