Death

It was June 2011, and the monsoon rains had been relentless for three days. I had never seen Mumbai drown like this before. Water poured into every corner of the city—homes, streets, verandas. The flood brought more than just destruction; it unleashed diseases like malaria, spreading fear faster than the rain itself.

Our chawl was one of the worst-affected places. Ten people crammed into a 200-square-foot room—their lives clinging to the hope of better days. My mother lay bedridden on a cot for two long years, helpless and fragile. My wife and I had married recently, and her permission to work was still nowhere in sight. With my meager earnings as a train salesman, I barely managed to gather enough to pay the rent. But I had to keep trying.

At night, mosquitoes ruled over us without mercy. The women slept in that cramped room while the rest of us made a bed outside near the gully. The buzzing of insects was a constant, cruel lullaby. I watched helplessly as my mother’s health worsened day by day, tormented by the endless bites and the grim reality. The local authorities came once a week with fogging machines, but their efforts were useless against the tide of the mosquitoes. I often wondered if anything could save us.

Then, something new arrived—the ultrasound mosquito repellent machine. The company claimed it sent out sound waves only insects could hear, driving them away from the home. I wasn’t sure if it would work, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Buying a bulky stock with the little money I had left, I began selling the devices on trains. I told the passengers how it could protect them cheaply and easily. I saw hope flash in their eyes—the same hope I tried to hold onto for my family.

That night, I came home exhausted but hopeful. The dogs at the chawl gate barked but then wagged their tails when they saw me. My mother sensed my presence even in her half-sleep. After dinner, I lay beside my wife, the hum of the ultrasound machine buzzing quietly next to the cot. I closed my eyes, feeling for the first time in days that maybe this terrible flood of mosquitoes could be stopped.

But then, a soft moan shattered the silence. My mother was trying to talk—pointing weakly toward the kitchen. I fetched her water and helped her drink, but I could see the shadow behind her eyes. I knew she might not last until dawn. My heart ached, but I held her hand and stayed silent, unwilling to wake anyone else. Tomorrow, I’d tell my wife.

I looked at the humming device again. The buzzing seemed to keep the mosquitoes away from me. No itchy bites tonight. Maybe it was working, after all.

Morning light came with a strange, eerie scene. Opening the door, I found cockroaches, rats, cats, and stray dogs standing in strange formation around the doorway, like soldiers guarding some fortress. Mosquitoes swirled wildly around the ultrasound machine—it was the eye of the storm. 

Then, in a moment I couldn’t believe, my mother stirred. She sat up and tried to speak, moving for the first time in years. Was it a miracle? A trick my tired eyes played? I whispered, “It’s the machine.”

But when I switched the machine off in triumph, the nightmare returned. The buzzing stopped, the guards scattered, and my mother took a final, shuddering breath. She was gone.

I sat there, numb, with the weight of loss crushing my chest. In trying to fight the darkness with a flicker of light, I had held onto hope until the very end—and then, that hope slipped through my fingers like sand.