By Lhundup Gyalpo
A bunch of yellow and listless leaves rustled in a small eddy by the closed door. The wind blew in a melancholic whirl, whistling in a doleful hum. Nine thirty-two in the morning, the house was still dimly lit, bereft of light; a thick overcast kept the sun away in its sombre folds.
Her husband had gone to work, while her children, a boy of seven and a girl nearing nine, to school. They had left home in elation as it was their last day of the session; their school was to break for winter holidays the following day. That left her all alone, until she went to her office in half an hour.
“Will it snow?,” she wondered dusting a chair in the vestibule. The scene outside was doleful and lonely. Her head felt morose too. It was thick, hazy and vague. That’s how she described her feelings. Nothing else, no other word seemed to commit to the experience. She looked out of the window beside the wooden inlet, the compound was desolate and dusty. “Ah, I need a broom…” she thought reluctantly. In the night, a strong gale had dumped heaps of loose gravel and some poly bags.
She sat in the chair nearby and took a few shallow breaths. It was reinvigorating, but something still weighed her down. Even thoughts, thoughts were blocked out. She wanted to think and contemplate on her circumstance, but nothing appeared in her brain. Choked.She stood upright, cupping her cloudy forehead in her delicate hands. In strides uncertain, she walked to the living room. Though she intended to finish cleaning the house, the strange blurriness descended further into her almond eyes. Involuntarily, she strode to the living room, tracing the cemented corridor unsure. She lay on a sofa in the room, facing the roof. Her gaze fell on the brightly varnished logs, meticulously arranged in geometric patterns. The precision of the overlay only aggravated her situation. It made her bilious. Her head began to spin, so she had to close her eyes. Soon, in delirium, she went to sleep.
After a while, due to the cold or maybe fatigue, she woke up. The roof was stationary, not bothering her anymore. Her head, still bulbous and numb, was conscious at least. And the broom in her sluggish hand was about to drop. “A cup of tea…will help,” she forced herself to think through the daze. So, slowly, she entered the kitchen. Holding the tile coated worktop in a weak clutch, she reached out for cabinets at a height above her head. “Ah, not this one,” she uttered, pushing one of the boxes. It contained salt. Tossing through the collection of containers, finally, she found the one with tea leaves.
Giddy still, she prepared her tea. Holding the cup, she sat on a chair placed just outside the kitchen. The unexplained weight seemed to grow heftier. In fact, by then, it was all over her body, making her crouch a little. Without sparing a second, she drank the brew. With her head resting on the chair, she stared at the roof. But, nothing…nothing special transpired. Relieved, she closed her eyes. “Am I forgetting something?” she entertained the nauseating thought for the sake of it. “What…what…is it?” Only a blank silence reigned. It scared her; the emptiness. She opened her eyes. They flickered, fluttered, but nothing precipitated in her mind—not even her name.
Snow began to descend through the fog, while the breeze had died down completely. The room grew gloomier still. She switched the light on, but it shimmered in weak hissings. “What?”she exclaimed noticing the silent featherlike precipitation. The clock struck ten. “By now I should have been ready for work,” she murmured. “What’s happening…strange?” On the floor, she saw her woollen socks. She had removed them unconsciously while asleep. Delicately, she put them on; her small feet were freezing. Slouching over the chair, she then thought of splashing water on her face. So, she dragged herself through the lobby. The floor was cold. Its chill seeped through her socks. She had no defence but to walk brokenly. “Ah, this haziness. I…I feel like throwing up. Revolting! …free me of this burden,” she mumbled yielding as we do when in unsettling and dire situations that bear upon us in our hapless guts.In the washroom, she stooped straight to the washbasin. Holding it with the left hand, she turned the faucet on. The shrill sound of water broke a little of the thick spell. Quickly, she splashed a handful of water to her face. It was cold, icy cold. Still, she drank a mouthful. The chill bit into her being, breaking into the suffocating aura. She felt relieved. That, she could breathe again. That, her vision regained its clarity. That, her thoughts cleared off the misty casing. “What was it?” She wondered, “…that grip, clamping on…!”
Spilling some more water, with both her hands, she greedily inhaled deeply, filling her lungs as if the air were to turn stale or run out soon. Her meagre stature stirred top to bottom. Cold travelled from legs to her crown. Thoughts returned to her, a stream of them flashed her family, children, relatives, her friends, colleagues, her plans, dreams, and dejections. She remembered her past as memories inundated her brain. So much so that she even felt aware of her future. At the rush of muddled thoughts, she looked into the mirror lifting her head.
It stunned her. A ghost like creature, hazy, cloudy, merely silhouetted against the glare of light and shadowy darkness, was peeking at her. It was sitting on her back. “What? What’s on my back?” she thought with a chill running down her weak spine. “What’s happening to me? A child? Am I going mad?” She smeared her eyes with her cold hand. “Look! That’s…that is me when I was child. In the mirror… that’s me…I…my childhood is on…” Just then, the lights went out before she could ascertain her vision in the frozen mirror.
By Lhundup Gyalpo
He is the author of ‘Betty’s Butter Tea – Stories from Ladakh.’ Gyalpo has contributed to the Indian Literary journal of Sahitya Akademi, India. His literary works have been published in Sheeraza magazine of Jammu & Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture and Languages. He is a columnist at Stawa magazine, Ladakh. Gyalpo was one of the twenty-five finalists at LitMart (a pitching platform for writers), Bangalore Literature Festival, 2018. He is an alumnus of Indian Institution of Technology Bombay.
