Unlived

It is quite warm in here. Very comforting. A very comfortable cocoon for me. The position that I’m lying in, it’s a very comfortable one. I don’t know how this happened. It just did. The feed is going right into my mouth, I don’t have to do anything. Isn’t that just great? But I don’t feel great. I don’t feel anything right now. In fact, right now, I am devoid. Of all thought. All consciousness. Just, you know, devoid. But I’m not a vegetable, no Sir. I am a living, breathing human organism. A devoid human organism. Devoid of thought and feeling. Isn’t that a sign of a mature human being? I’m not sure. Someday I may turn into one. And say that Life has come a full circle.

Somewhere, in a not so distant future, there’s going to be a metamorphosis. When I will emerge in all my glory. Evolve. Only God knows into what and only God can tell how. Right now, I’m just a seed and only God knows how the apple will form.

I’m lying in this state for some time now. Slowly, I see myself changing, everyday. Ever so slightly. Small, subtle changes. Chromosomes meeting together. Amoeba meeting together. Millions and millions of cells, forming a pattern of their own, through a cosmic discipline that nobody could even dream of. And who knows what else. Creation is something nobody has even begun to fathom. Maybe a bunch of theoretical physicists or autistic personalities with a highly developed academia and no sense of social construct. They can fathom these eternal boundaries and create mathematical equations. Is that what we are at the end of the day? A mathematical equation in a universe of paradigms? Who knows?

Such lofty thoughts. Who am I to become, I wonder.

Sometimes, I hear a sweet voice, talking to me. Mellifluent. Like a stream bubbling against a rock. Sometimes it’s singing. Sometimes I feel a caress. Gentle. Soft. There is a joy in that song. In that voice. As if an entire existence is made up of an indescribable joy, that a melody, through her gentle voice, is trying to express. It is a voice full of love. Full of hope. Full of faith. A love. In its purest, truest form. A love without expectations. A love that is only giving at the moment. And I am receiving it. I’m so lucky.

The gentle caresses and the briefest of touches. Sometimes, music is put on. Soft, soothing. A cow grazing in a meadow. A hint of a lazy summer afternoon, with a cool breeze blowing. And dogs barking in the distance. Birds. And sheep. And the gentle ticking of the clocks. Nice dreamy sensations. Who wants Beethoven’s Ninth, against such tenderness?

And so time goes on. An endless microcosm. As I lie here in wait for things to happen.

And things begin to happen.

One day, there is movement. Unsubtle movement, that is. From one place to another. There’s arrival. And names being called out at repeated intervals. Names of ladies. Mrs. X. And Mrs. Y. And Mrs. Z. Mathematics again. And then one more name is taken.

At the last name, I feel a gentle slow movement. Then silence and small, low, soft talk. Then the tinkling of some instruments. A distant sound out there. A low humming. Someone has switched on the fan. There’s a movement, though I’m quite used to movements. Then there’s silence for some more time. Some adjustment is being made. Low moans.

Then a light is switched on. It’s a sharp light. Abrasive. It’s hurting me. Hurting my consciousness. Filling the devoid in me, with light. But I’m not ready for the light yet. I’m still comfortable in the dark.

I hear the buzz and whirr of instruments. Then the light is switched off.

And the voices begin to talk.

And I hear a hushed tone.

“It’s a girl”.

There is a dead silence for a minute. The room has gone silent. Only the clack-clack-clack of the fan can be heard. I can hear nothing in this silence. I feel some tension. Then another voice. A male voice. A hard voice. A harsh voice. An alpha male voice, used to having it’s own alpha male way, in a woman empowered world. Saying “Oh No” it says. “Not again”. “I’m afraid so” says a silken smooth voice. A highly educated voice, that. A voice from the South. South Mumbai. Or the South of France. Or the Southern States, maybe Alabama. I’m not well versed with the accents yet.

“It’s not a boy. It’s a girl”.

“There’s no mistake?” The alpha male voice again.

The sweet female voice is sobbing.

And the silken voice is repeating. “No” it says. Maybe gleefully. Maybe malevolently. “It’s definitely not a boy” it says.

“It’s a girl”.

The voices fade into the distance. Reverberations. Echoes bouncing off the wall. “It’s a girl. It’s a girl. It’s a girl. No, it’s not a boy. It’s a girl”.

The cocoon is shifting and I hear that sweet soothing sound again, of someone talking to me. Only this time, the voice has broken.

I am appalled at the utter helplessness and dejection in that voice. For I have never heard such utter dejection before. As if a sentence has been passed. And there is a ring of finality to it.

Then it’s back to what it was. But something has changed. A change in routine. From time to time, there are sudden jerks to the body. Sudden movements. I hear something that sounds like a slap. The words “stupid bitch”. What do they mean? What has happened, all of a sudden? How has “sweet angel” become “stupid bitch”?

Then there is also the continual sobbing. Silent sobbing that goes on long into the night and stops as sleep overtakes it.

Was it something I did?

The days go by. I’m getting less feed now. I can feel it. Like the walls are closing in. Deprivation.

No leafy vegetables anymore. No afternoon rests. The cocoon continues to move. As the long periods of rest have stopped.

Sometimes, the body is pushed. Slammed into the wall. Abrasive crying. Loud voices. In spasmodic jerks. Then silent crying. A cabal of voices. “It must happen” they say. “It must happen”. What must happen? It’s so disturbing.

Where is my feed?

The singing has stopped. So have the caresses.

In fact, once, there was a vicious kick that was just avoided and became a glancing blow.

And then one day, something else happens. There is a spasm. A racking convulsion. The cocoon appears to be breaking. What is this? What’s happening? What is this fluid? What! Oh! Oh No! No! No! I’m gasping! I’m choking! I’m....Help! Help! Someone please help! I want to live! I want to exist! I want to be. Please don’t deny me this. Please. This is my right! God has made me. Please. Please. Help. Help. Help! Helppppppp.......sssss......

Ah....strange magical white light....I’m drifting....I see below....a mass of blood, congealed. A paper being used to scrub it. It’s a poster. “Beti Bachao. Beti Padhao” it says. The mass of blood is collected. And flushed down the drain....what was it? was that me? Was that really me? The woman is crying. Oh she could have been my.... oh well let me not dwell on that.

The blood is flushed down the drain. And a bespectacled man with something around his neck gets a bundle of some paper from a mustached alpha male. The bespectacled man is smiling. The alpha male is angry. Why is he still angry now? I’m no longer there...

No matter. There’s the window. There’s the sky. And there He is. Beckoning me. Calling me. Into His arms. Into His love.

I am free. At last.

Unlived.

But free. Free. Free.