A scythe is clutched in her bony hand. Her face is hidden in darkness beneath a hood. Her pitch black endless robe is flowing behind her. The Grim Reaper stands in front of me, her other arm extended towards me. Her blood red eyes almost seem kind, full of pity and remorse, probably even guilt. Her form radiates power, yet she seems fragile, as if the millions of souls she’s reaped have cursed her. Her extended arm may not be to escort my soul to purgatory. It may just be an extension of friendship, from a loner surrounded by the dead to another, surrounded by the living.
Put a scythe on my throat and I won’t flinch. I wouldn’t worry about dying, nor would I be afraid of the suffering. The prospect of death doesn’t intimidate me – if I die, I die. Yet, there’s a newfound indifference in me about death, for now, I don’t even seem to care about who will be affected if I die. Death, if ever arrives, I pray it arrives stealthily and takes me silently. I hope to be taken in isolation – invisible, unnoticed and unrealised – very much like the way I’ve lived.
Earlier, I did not know who will cry when I die. Now, I don’t care about it. People may wish to be remembered after their death as good people, and usually, death grants them that wish. I’ve seen people turn up to funerals of the wicked, for cowards hate to be painted with the brush of sentimental judgement which crumbles logic. I, on the other hand, wish to die; and wish to die alone. Let me be ravaged by the vultures and the scavengers, for that’s how humanity’s vultures have always picked on me. Let me be eaten by the dirt, making me dust, therefore allowing me to belong somewhere truly. Let there not be a funeral, for I do not want pretentiously pious people praying for me when all they did was prey on me. Let there not be gatherings of people with remorse or regret, for I hold no grudge. Let there not be any tears of acid which will corrode me even after I am gone. I wasn’t truly there with you though, and please, when I really go, let me go in peace, even if I am in pieces.
Yet, life purges in me and prevents me from grasping her hand. Our need for each other is forbidden, for as uncanny it is for a mortal to voluntarily seek death as a friend, it is totally unheard of death seeking a suitor.
She ‘lives’ for me, and I ‘die’ for her everyday. There’s something about love which baffles everyone. And there’s something about death that mystifies everyone. It is forbidden to mix love and death, but often the unloved seek love in death; and the loved fear the lack of love in it. Forbidden it may be, but to live and belove death is my choice, and to be death and belove a life is hers. Something has to go. Either she gives in, or I give up.
It’s as if there’s a wall.. and my life is in it, trapping me away from her. Life that is enclosed within walls which cannot be broken, but can be jumped over or dug out of. Walls of pious prayers, of societal norms, of staple love and conditioned minds. Essentially, it is life that remains the same regardless of what happens beyond the walls. But she’s there, beyond the walls, alone, and waiting. I cannot see her, but I can feel her need. Unless of course, I manage to break the boundaries and jump over the walls..
I don’t know if I can. And the walls are closing in.
Kaaga Re Kaaga Re Mori Itni Araj Tose;
Chun Chun Khaiyo Maans!
Arajiya Re Khaaiyo Na Tu Naina More,
Khaaiyon Na Tu Naina;
Mohe Piya Ke Milan Ki Aas!
TRANSLATION: O Crow, I have only this request to you,
eat every bit of (my body’s) flesh,
but do not eat my eyes,
don’t eat my eyes
as I have a wish to see my lover..